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SYLVESTER SOUND 



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SOMNAMBULIST. 



BY HENRY COCKTON. 



LONDON: 
W. M. CLARK, 17, WAHWICK-LANK, PATERN03TER-R0\V. 



MDCCCXLIV. 



l^MSifUS ; <:;!cdiii l^ttm of VV. M. Clark, Hed tion court, Fl«9t-itredt 



PREFACE. 



Somnambulism has been in all ages known. Aristotle says, " There 
are individuals who rise in their sleep and walk about, seeing as clearly 
as those that are awake." Diogenes Laertius states that Theon, the 
philosopher, was a somnambulist. Galen slept whilst on a road, and 
pursued his journey, until he was awakened by ti'ippiug on a stone. 
Felix Pater fell asleep while playing on the lute, and was startled only 
by the fall of the instrument ;* while the present age teems with instances 
of the most astounding character. 

" There is no doubt," says Dr. Millingen, " that in somnambulists 
the intellectual functions are not only active, but frequently more 
developed than when the individual is awake. Persons in this state 
have been known to write and correct verses, and solve difficult pro- 
blems, which they could not have done at other times. In their actions 
and locomotion they are more cautious, and frequently more dexterous, 
than when awake. They have been knoAvn to saddle and bridle horses, 
after having dressed themselves; put on boots and spurs, and after- 
wards ride considerable distances from home and back again. A sleep- 
walker wandering abroad in winter complained of being frozen, and 
asked for a glass of brandy, but expressed violent anger on being offered 
a glass of water. The celebrated sect of Tremblers, in the Cevennes 
mountains, used to rove about in their sleep, and, although badly ac- 
quainted with the French language, expressed themselves clearly and 
put up prayers in that tongue, instead of the Latin Pater and Credo 
which they had been taught." 

" If," observes Dr. Mason Good, " the external organ of sense thus 
stimulated be that of sight, the dreamer may peiceive objects around him, 
and be able to distinguish them ; and if the tenor of the dreaming ideas 
should as powerfully operate upon the muscles of locomotion, these also 
may be thrown into their accustomed state of action, and he may rise from 
his bed, and make his way to whatever place the drift of his dream may 
direct him, with perfect ease, and free from danger. He will see more 
or less distinctly, in proportion as the organ of sight is more or less 
awake: yet, froju the increased exhaustion, and, of course, increased 

* Cnriosities of Medipj^l Experienpe. 



IV rREFACE. 

torpor of tlie other organs, in consequence of an increased demand of 
sensorial power from tlie common stock, to supply the action of the 
sense and muscles immediately engaged, every other sense will probably 
be thrown into a deeper sleep or torpor than if the whole had been 
quiescent. Hence, the cars may not be roused even by a sound that 
might otherwise awake the sleeper. He may be insensible not only to 
a slight touch, but a severe shaking of the limbs ; and may even cough 
violently, without being recalled from his dream. Hjiving accomplished 
the object of his visionary pursuit, he may safely return, even over the 
most dangerous precipices — for he sees them distinctly — to his bed; 
and the organ of sight being now quite exhausted, or there being no 
longer any occasion for its use, it may once more associate in the 
general inactivity, and the dream take a now turn, and consist of a new 
combination of images." 

Dr. Pritchard, in his " Treatise on Insanity,'* says " there is an ob- 
vious relation between the state of the faculties hi sonmambulism and 
that which exists during dreams. It is indeed probable that somnam- 
bulism is dreaming in a manner so modified that the will recovers its 
usual power over muscular motion, and hkewise becomes endued with a 
peculiar control over the organs of sense and perception. This power, 
which gives rise to the most curious phenomena of sonmambulism, is of 
such a kind, that, while the senses are in general obsciu^ed, as in sleep, 
and all other objects are unperccived, the sonmambulator manifests a 
faculty of seeing, feeling, or otherwise discovering those particular ob- 
jects of which he is in pursuit, towards which his attention is by inward 
movement directed, or with which the internal operations of his mind 
bring him into relation. As in dreams, so likewise in somnambulism, 
the individual is intent on the pursuit of objects towards which his 
mind had been previously directed in a powerful manner, and his atten- 
tion strongly roused; he is in both states impelled by habit, under the 
influence of which he repeats the routine of his daily observ^ances. A 
•omnambulator is a dreamer who is able to act his dreams." 
' "Somnambulism,*' observes Macnish, in his " Philosophy of Sleep," 
"I have had occasion to remark, is very common among chiklren; and 
I belicvo that it more frequently affects childhood than any other age. 
It is a ciu^ous, and not easily explained fact, that the aged, though they 
dream more than the middle-aged, are less addicted to somnambulism 
and sleep-talking. Indeed, these phenomena are seldom noticed in old 
people. 

" It has been matter of surprise to many, that somnambulists often 



get into the most dangerous situations without experiencing terror. 
But the explanation of this ought not to be attended with auy renl 
difficulty; for we must reflect, that alarm cannot be felt unless we 
apprehend danger, and that the latter, however great it may be, cannot 
excite emotion of any kind, so long as we are ignorant of its existence. 
This is the situation in which sleep-walkers, in a great majority of 
cases, stand. The reasoning faculties, which point out the existence of 
danger, are generally in a state of complete slumber, and unable to 
produce coiTesponding emotions in the mind. And even if danger 
should be perceived by a sleep-walker and avoided, as is sometimes the 
case, his want of terror is to be imputed to a quiescent state of the 
organ of Cautiousness; the sense of fear originating in high excitement 
of this particular part of the brain. That the reasoning faculties, how- 
ever, are sometimes only very partially suspended we have abundant 
evidence, in the fact of the individual not only, now and then, studiously 
avoiding danger, but performing offices which require no small degree 
of judgment. In the higher kinds of somnambulism, so many of the 
organs of the brain are in activity, and there is such perfect wakeful- 
ness of the external senses and locomotive powers, that the person may 
almost be said to be awake.*' 

" The remote causes of sleep-walking," he again remarks, " are so ob- 
scure, that it is seldom we are able to ascertain them. General insta- 
bility of frame, a nervous temperament, and bad digestion, will dispose 
to the affection. Being a modification of dreaming, those who are much 
troubled with the latter will, consequently, be most prone to its attacks. 
The causes, however, are, in a great majority of cases, so completely un- 
known, that any attempt to investigate them would be fruitless; and 
we ai'e compelled to refer the complaint to some idiosyncracy of consti- 
tution beyond the reach of human knowledge." 

" To prevent a reciurence of somnambulism," he adds, " we should 
remove, if possible, the cause which gave rise to it. Thus, if it proceed 
from a disordered state of the stomach, or biliary system, we must em- 
ploy the various medicines used in such cases. Plenty of exercise 
should be taken, and late houi*s and much study avoided. If it arises 
from plethora, he must be blooded, and live low; should hysteria pro- 
duce it, anti-spasmodics, such as valerian, ammonia, assafoetida, and 
opium may be necessaiy. 

" But, imfortunately, we can often refer sleep-walking to no complaint 
whatever. In this case, all that can be done is to cai'ry the individual 
as safely as possible through the paroxysm, and prevent him from injury 



VI PREFACE. 

by the means we have mentioned. In many instances, the aflfection will 
wear spontaneously away: in others, it will continue in 8pit<? of every 
remedy." 

I have been, during the progress of this work in monthly parts, appre- 
hensive that the scenes introduced, and the incidents described, might 
be deemed impossible. I am, therefore, anxious to show not only that 
they are not impossible, but that they are not improbable; and with 
this view I will now proceed to extract a series of well authenticated 
facts — ^facts related by men who have acquired the highest reputation 
for talent and honour. 

Dr. Dyce, of Aberdeen, describes the case of "a girl, in which this 
affection began with fits of somnolency, which came upon her suddenly 
during the day, and from which she could at first be roused by shaking 
or by being taken into the open air. Duiing these attacks she was in 
the habit of talking of things that seemed to pass before her like a 
dream, and was not at the time sensible of anything that was said to 
her. On one occasion she repeated the entire of the baptismal service 
of the Church of England, and concluded with an extemporary prayer. 
In her subsequent paroxysms she began to understand what was said to 
her, and to answer with a considerable degree of consistency, though 
these replies were in a certain measure influenced by her hallucination. 
She also became capable of following her usual employment during the 
paroxysm.. At one time she would lay out the table for breakfast, and 
repeatedly dress herself and the children, her eyes remaining shut the 
whole time. The remarkable circumstance was now discovered, that, 
dui'ing the paroxysm, she had a distinct recollection of what had taken 
place in former attacks, though she had not the slightest recollection of 
it during the intervals. She was taken to church during the paroxysm, 
and attended the service with apparent devotion, and at one time was 
so affected by the sermon that she actually shed tears; yet in the 
interval she had no recollection whatever of the circumstance, but 
in the following paroxysm she gave a most distinct account of it, 
and actually repeated the passage of the sermon that had so much 
affected her. This sort of somnambulism, relating distinctly to two 
periods, has been called, perhaps erroneously, a state of double conscious- 
7iessy 

" A gii'l, aged seven years," says Dr. Abercrombie, " an orphan, of 
the lowest rank, residing in the house of a farmer, by whom she was 
employed in tending cattle, was accustomed to sleep in an apartment 
separated by a very thin partition from one which was frequently occu- 



PR£FAO£. vi 

pied by an itinerant fiddler. This person was a musician of very 
considerable skill, and often s^^eut a part of the night in performing 
pieces of a refined description; but his performance was not taken 
notice of by the child, except as a disagreeable noise. After a residence 
of six months in this family she fell into bad liealtli, and was removed 
to the house of a benevolent lady, where, on her recovery after a 
protracted illness, she was employed as a servant. Some years after 
she came to reside with this lady, the most beautiful music was often 
heard in the house during the night, which excited no small interest 
and wonder in the family; and many a waking hour was spent in 
endeavours to discover the invisible minstrel. At length the sound was 
traced to the sleeping-room of the girl, who was found fast asleep, but 
uttering from her lips a sound exactly resembling the sweetest tones of a 
small violin. On further obsen'ation it was found, that after being about 
two hours in bed, she became restless and began to mutter to herself; she 
then uttered sounds precisely resembling the tuning of a violin, and at 
length, after some prelude, dashed oflf into an elaborate piece of music, 
which she performed in a clear and accurate manner, and with a sound 
exactly resembling the most delicate modulation of the instrument, and 
then began exactly where she had stopped in the most correct manner. 
These paroxysms occurred at irregular intervals, varying from one to 
iburteen and even twenty nights ; and they were generally followed by a 
degree of fever and pain over various parts of the body. 

" After a year or two, her music was not confined to the imitation of 
the violin, but was often exchanged for that of a piano, of a very old 
description, which she was accustomed to hear in the house in which 
she now lived, and then she would begin to sing, imitating exactly the 
voices of several ladies of the family. 

" In another year from this time she began to talk a great deal in her 
sleep, in which she fancied herself instructing a young companion. 
She oftien descanted with the utmost fluency and correctness on a variety 
of subjects, both political and religious, the men of the day, the 
historical parts of Scripture, public characters, and pai'ticularly the 
character of the members of the family and their visiters. In these 
discussions she showed the most wonderful discrimination, often com- 
bined witli sarcasm, and astonishing powers of mimickry. Her lan- 
guage through the whole was fluent and correct, and her illustrations 
often forcible and even eloquent. She was fond of illustrating her 
subjects by what she called a fahU, and in these her imagery was both 
appropriate and correct. The justice and truth of her remarks on all 



Viii i»k£iAcifi. 

subjects, excited the utmost astonishment in those who were acquainted 
with her limited means of .acquiring information. 

" She had been known to conjugate con-ectly Latin verbs, which sh<^ 
had probably heard in the school-room of the lamiiy, and she was once 
heard to speak several sentences very correctly in French, at the same 
time stating that she had heard them from a foreign gentleman whom 
she had met accidentally in a shop. Being questioned on this subject 
when awake, she remembered having seen the gentleman, but could not 
repeat a word of what he had said. 

" During her paroxysms it was almost unpossible to awake her, and 
when her eylids were raised and a candle brought near the eye, the 
pupil seemed insensible to the light. For several years she was, during 
the paroxysm, entirely unconscious of the presence of other persons, 
but about the age of sixteen, she began to observe those who were in 
the apartment, and she could tell correctly their number though the 
utmost care was taken to have the room darkened. She now also be- 
came capable of answering questions that were put to her, and of notic- 
ing remarks made in her presence, and, with regard to both, she allowed 
astonishing acuteness. Her observations indeed were often of such a nature 
and corresponded so accurately with character and events, that, by the 
country people, she was believed to be endowed with supernatui-al power. 

" During the whole period of this remarkable affection, which seems 
to have gone on for at least ten or eleven years, she was, when awake, 
a dull awkward girl, very slow in receiving any kind of instruction, 
though much care was bestowed upon her; and in point of intellect, she 
was much inferior to the other servants of the family. In particular, 
she showed no kind of turn for music. She did not appear to have 
any recollection of what passed in her sleep ; but during her nocturnal 
ramblings, she was more than once heard to lament her infirmity of 
speaking in her sleep, adding how fortunate it was she did not sleep 
among the other servants, as they teased her enough about it as it; was." 

Dr. Dewar also relates the " case of an ignorant servant-girl, who, 
during the paroxysm of somnambulism, showed an astonishing know- 
ledge of geography and astronomy, and expressed herself, in her own 
language, in a manner which, though often ludicrous, showed an imder- 
standing of the subject. The alteration of the seasons, for example, sho 
explained by saying the world was set a ^cc." 

Dr. Macnish, in " The Philosophy of Sleep," has moreover given us 
the following cases : — " A female servant in the town of Chelmsford, 
surprised the family, at four o'clock one moi^ning, by walking down a 



]Ptt£FAC£. lit 

flight of stall's iu her sleep, and rapping at the bed-i-Qom door of her 
master, who inquired what she wanted? when, in her usual tone of voice, 
she requested some cotton, saying that she had torn her gown, but hoped 
that her mistress would forgive her: at the same time bursting into tears. 
Her fellow-servant, with whom she had been conversing some time, 
observed her get out of bed, and quickly followed lier, but not before 
sbe had related the pitiful story. She then returned to her room, and 
a light having been procured, she was found groping to find her cotton- 
box. Another person went to her, when, perceiving a difference in the 
voice, she called out, * That is a different voice; that is my mistress,' 
which was not the case — ^thus clearly showing, that she did not see the 
object before her, although her eyes were ivide open. Upon inquiry as 
to what was the matter, she only said that she wanted some cotton, but 
that her fellow-servant had been to her master and mistress, making a 
fuss about it. It was now thought prudent that she should be allowed 
to remain quiet for some short time, and she was persuaded to lie down 
with her fellow-servant until the usual hour of rising, thinking that she 
might then awake in her accustomed manner. This failing in effect, 
her mistress went up to her room, and rather angrily desired her to get 
up, and go to her work, as it was now six o'clock ; this she refused, 
telling her mistress that if she did not please her, she might look out 
for another servant, at the same time saying, that she would not rise up 
at two o'clock, (pointing to the window,) to injure her health for any 
one. For the sake of a joke, she was told to pack up her things, and 
start off immediately, but to this she made no reply. She rebuked her 
fellow-servant for not remaining longer in bed, and shortly after this 
became quiet. She was afterwards shaken violently, and awoke. She 
then rose, and seeing the cotton-box disturbed, demanded to know why 
it had been meddled with, not knowing that she alone was the cause of 
it. In the course of the day, several questions were put to her in order 
to try her recollection, but the real fact, of her walking, was not made 
known to her; and she is still quite unconscious of what has transpii'ed. 
" The next case is of a different description, and exhibits a dormant 
state of the sense of hearing, while sight appears throughout, to have 
been in active operation. 

" A young man named Johns, who works at Cardrew, near Redruth, 
being asleep in the sump-house of that mine, was observed by two boys 
to rise and walk to the door, against which he leaned; shortly afler, 
quitting that position, he walked to the engine-shafb, and safely 
descended, to the depth of twenty fathoms, where he was found by 



X PR£FAC£. 

his comrades soon after, with his back resting on the ladder. They 
called to him, to apprise him of the perilous situation in which he was, 
but he did not hear them, and they were obliged to shake him roughly 
till he awoke, when he appeared totally at a loss to account for his 
being so situated. 

" In Lodge's * Historical Portraits,' there is a likeness, by Sir Peter 
Lely, of Lord Culpepper's brother, so famous as a dreamer. In 1686, 
he was indicted, at the Old Bailey, for shooting one of the Guards, and 
his horse to boot. He pleaded somnambulism, and was acquitted on 
producing nearly fifty witnesses to prove the extraordinary things he did 
in his sleep. 

" A very curious circumstance is related of Dr. Franklin, in the 
memoirs of that eminent philosopher, published by his grandson. * I 
went out,' said the doctor, * to bathe in Martin's salt-water hot bath, in 
Southampton, and, floating on my back, fell asleep, and slept nearly an 
hour, by my watch, without sinking or turning — a thing I never did 
before, and should hardly have thought possible.' 

" A case still more extraordinary occurred some time ago in one of 
the towns on the coast of Ireland. About two o'clock in the morning, 
the watchmen on the revenue quay were much surprised at descrying a 
man disporting himself in the water, about a hundred yards from the 
shore. Intimation having been given to the revenue boat's crew, they 
pushed off and succeeded in picking him up, but, strange to say, he had 
no idea whatever of his perilous situation : and it was with the utmost 
difficulty they could persuade him he was not still in bed. But the 
most singular part of this novel adventure, and which was afterwards 
ascertained, was that the man had left his house at twelve o'clock that 
night, and walked through a difficult and, to him, dangerous road, a 
distance of nearly two miles, and had actually s^vum one mile and a half 
when he was fortunately discovered and picked up. 

" Not very long ago a boy was seen fishing off Brest, up to the middle 
in water. On coming up to him, he was found to be fast asleep. 

" I know a gentleman who, in consequence of dreaming that the house 
was broken into by thieves, got out of bed, dropped from the window 
(fortimately a low one) into the street ; and was a considerable distance 
on his way to warn the police, when he was discovered by one of them, 
who awoke him, and conducted him home. 

" A case is related of an English clergyman who used to get up in 
the night, light his candle, write sermons, correct them with interlinea- 
tions, and retire to bed again; being all the time asleep. The Arch- 



P&EFACl!:. XI 

bishop of Bourdeaux mentions a similar case of a student, who got up 
to compose a sermon while asleep, wrote it correctly, read it over from 
one end to the other, or at least appeared to read it, made corrections on 
it, scratched out lines, and substituted others, put in its place a word 
which had been omitted, composed music, wrote it acciu-ately down, and 
performed other things equally surprising. Dr. Gall takes notice of a 
miller, who was in the habit of getting up every night and attending to 
his usual avocations at the mill, then retiu:ning to bed : on awaking in 
the morning, he recollected nothing of what passed during the night. 
Martinet speaks of a saddler who was accustomed to rise in his sleep and 
work at his trade ; and Dr. Pritchard of a farmer who got out of bed, 
dressed himself, saddled his horse, and rode to the market, being all the 
while asleep. Dr. Blacklock, on one occasion, rose from bed, to which 
he had retired at an early hour, came into the room where his family 
were assembled, conversed with them, and afterwards entertained them 
with a pleasant song, without any of them suspecting he was asleep, and 
without his retaining, after he awoke, the least recollection of what he 
had done. It is a singular, yet well authenticated fact, that in the dis- 
astrous retreat of Sir John Moore, many of the soldiers fell asleep, yet 
continued to march along vnth their comrades. 

" The stories related of sleep-walkers are, indeed, of so extraordinary 
a kind, that they would almost seem fictitious, were they not supported 
by the most incontrovertible evidence. To walk on the house-top, to 
scale precipices, and descend to the bottom of frightful ravines, are 
common exploits ^vith the somnambulist; and he performs them with a 
facility far beyond the power of any man who is completely awake. 

" Somnambulism, as well as lunacy, sometimes bestows supernatural 
strength upon the individual. Mr. Dubrie, a musician in Bath, affords 
an instance of this kind. One Sunday, while awake, he attempted in 
vain to force open the window of his bedroom, which chanced to be nailed 
down ; but having got up in his sleep, he repeated the attempt success- 
fully, and threw himself out, by which he unfortunately broke his leg. 

" Sleep-walking is sometimes periodical. Martinet describes the case 
of a watchmaker's apprentice who had an attack of it every fortnight. 
In this state, though insensible to all external impressions, he would 
perform his work with his usual accuracy, and was always astonished 
on awaking, at the progress he had made. The paroxysm began with 
a sense of heat in the epigastrium extending to the head, followed by 
confusion of ideas and complete insensibility, the eyes remaining op<^n 
with a fixed and vacant stare. This case, which imdoubtedly originated 



in some diseased state of the brain, terminated in epilepsy. Dr. Gall 
relates that he saw at Berlin a yoimg man, sixteen yeai*s of age, who 
had, from time to time, very extraordinary fits. lie moved about un- 
consciously in bed, and had no perception of anything that was done to 
him; at last he would jump out of bed, and walk with rapid steps about 
the room, his eyes being fixed and open. Several obstacles which 
were placed by Dr. Gall in his way, he either removed or cautiously 
avoided. He then threw himself suddenly again upon the bed, moved 
about for some time, and finished by jumping up awake, not a little 
surprised at the number of curious people about him. 

" The facility with which somnambulists arc awakened from the 
paroxysms, differs extremely in different cases. One man is aroused 
by being gently touched or called upon, by a flash of light, by stumb- 
ling in his peregrinations, or by setting his foot in water. Another 
remains so heavily asleep, that it is necessary to shout loudly, to shake 
him with violence, and make use of other excitations equally powerful. 
In this condition, when the sense of vision chances to be dormant, it is 
curious to look at his eyes. Sometimes they are shut; at other times 
wide open ; and when the latter is the case, they are observed to be 
fixed and inexpressive, "without speculation," or energy, while 
pupil is contracted, as in the case of perfect sleep. 

" It is not always safe to arouse a sleep-walker ; and many cases of 
the fatal effects thence arising, have been detailed by authors. Nor is 
it at all unlikely that a person, even of strong nerves, might bo violently 
agitated by awaking in a situation so different from that in which he lay 
down. Among other examples, that of a young lady, who was addicted 
to this affection, may be mentioned. Knowing her failing, her friends 
made a point of locking the door, and seciu'ing the window of her 
chamber in such a manner that she could not possibly get out. One 
night, these precautions were imfortunately overlooked, and, in a pa- 
roxysm of somnambulism, she wallced into the garden behind the house. 
While there, she was recognised by some of the family, who were warned 
by the noise she made on opening the door, and they followed and 
awoke her ; but such was the effect produced upon her nervoiis system, 
that she almost instantly expired." 

Having adduced these cases, in order to justify the introduction of the 
scenes described in the following — ^not too profoundly-written pages — I 
have only to beg of those who read the work as a whole, to bear in 
mind that it originally appeared in monthly part«. 

H. C. 



CONTENTS. 



Chap. I. — The Introduction ..... 

Chap. II.— Introduces Aunt Eleanor, the Pastor, and his peaches 

Chap. III.— In which the first alarm is created 

Chap. IV.— The Churchyard .... 

Chap. V.— The Mystery .... 

Chap. VI.— The Ghost hunt .... 

Chap. VII.— The pickled Smalls 

Chap. VIII.— Rosalie 

Chap. IX. — The Guardians of the night . 

Chap. X. — The Guardians discovered 

Chap. XI. — The " Spirit" appears to the Pastor and Jones 

Chap. XII.— The fearful Conjecture 

Chap. XIII.— The Eggs and Exotics 

Chap. XIV.— The Departure from the Village 

Chap. XV.— Sylvester's first night in London . 

Chap. XVI.— Tob and his Wobad . 

Chap. XVI I.- Julia .... 

Chap. XVIII.— The Man-trap 

Chap. XIX.— The delicate Disclosure 

Chap. XX.-The Bells .... 

Chap. XXI.— The Proposal 

Chap. XXII. — Tom appears to give evidence in a case 

Chap. XXIII.— The lovers' return 

Chap. XXIV.— Love 

Chap. XXV. — The maiden Speech in Parliament 

Chap. XXVI.— The Accusation 

Chap. XXVII.— Tlie Meeting? . 

Chap. XX VIII.— Pier-glass practice 

Chap. XXIX.— Sylvester revisits Cotherstone Grange 

Chap. XXX.— The Suspicion 

Chap. XXXI.-The Village fair . 



Pait 

1 
2 
11 
19 
29 
33 
3.9 
48 

r>G 
Gr> 

71 
83 
89 
97 
112 
121 
l-2f) 
141 
153 
161 
169 
17.5 
193 
20.5 
21 r> 
220 
22.5 
237 
24(; 
257 
271 



XIV CONTENTS. 

Page 

Chap. XXXII.— Sylvester is recalled to town 28f> 

Chap. XXXIII.— Tlie proof 2f)4 

Chap. XXXIV.— The last request 303 

Chap. XXXV.— The Trial .%8 

Chap. XXXVI.— Sylvester's new Protector 321 

Chap. XXXVII.— The Mystery solved 340 

Chap. XXXVIII.— The Reconciliation 354 

Chap. XXXIX.— The Conclusion 363 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 



Portrait .... 

The Pastor and his Peaches. 

The Trial by Battle 

The Ghost Stories interrupted 

Mr. Pokey's powerful perception 

The alarm at the Cottage . 

The disturbed Furniture 

TheSylphide 

Keeping watch . 

The Guardians brought to light 

Death on the Pale Horse 

The Spirit of the Pastor 

Restoration of the Pony 

Obadiah settles the question 

The Tail of the Tub 

Students at the Bar . 

The entree of the Police 

Tom tries to vindicate his honour 

The Skeleton secured 

The unexpected Visit 

The Explanation 

Tom goes to answer the bells 

The Letter 

Ninety-nine comes in for it 

Tom givUig his evidenoe 

Tom in search of a Reporter • 

Obadiah hears his own oharacter 

Sylvester's visit to Julia , . 

Tom returns from the wlnrlow of his Uncle 

The interruption 

Jib strupk with amazentept 



to fact engravid title, 
4 
10 
22 
28 
.37 
40 
Mi 
G3 
69 
79 
80 
94 
101 

ior» 

115 
12.3 
1.3,3 
143 
153 
158 
162 
168 
17.0 
185 
196 
203 
208 
211 
236 
237 



xri LUT OF XLLUgTIUtlOyS. 

Pier-glAM practieo .... 

The rniiD tliat'i n^tn the Qlioet 

Obadiiih expreasinf; liis aentinieuts 

The Paraon puzzletl . . • , 

Obadiiih introducuiK Dick to Syl roster 

The aUnu in the ViUa;;c 

Tom*ii Trap fur Catohbg a Soninanibulbt 

The perilous position .... 

Henriette*s Interview with Mrs. Greville 

The Cabman ioquiruif( after the Parson's Mother 

Sylvester and his Protector 

The Escaped Convict .... 

The Bouquet 



24.'i 
253 
267 
276 
287 
23« 
2.09 
300 
307 
310 
337 
339 
350 



''■■' i. ..- rr 



SYLVESTER SOUND 



THE 



SOMNAMBULIST. 



CHAPTER I. 



THE INTRODUCTION. 



Among the ancient historians a practice prevailed which may be 
described thus : Whenever they wrote the lives of men, they explained, 
in limine, who those men were. This is in all their works manifest. 
They may have been right: they may have been wrong: it is not 
proposed to dive to any very gi-eat depth with the view of discovering 
the absolute necessity for the pursuit of this course ; it is sufficient for 
the world to know that they held such explanation to be essential to the 
perfect knowledge of the very men whose characters they portrayed, and 
as the practice is extremely convenient, it may not, even in this age, be 
deemed incorrect — ^however admirable originaUty may in itself be — ^to 
follow their example, by explaining at once, who Sylvester Sound the 
SomnambiQist was. 

Assiuning then the correctness of the course prescribed to be admitted, 
it now becomes proper to state that Sylvester Sound was the only son 
of Horatio Sound, M.D. ; that the doctor's lady departed this life very 
soon after Sylvester's birth ; that the doctor himself siu^ived her several 
years; that a circumstance — of which the particulars will be dwelt 
upon anon — not only caused the loss of his practice, but eventually 
broke his heart; and that, up to the period of his death, Sylvester — ^for 
a reason which the doctor himself never explained — ^was educated by 
him and lived constantly with him. 

B 



8TLVE8TEK SOUND 



CHAPTER II. 

INTRODUCES AUNT ELEANOR, THE PASTOR, AND HIS PEACHES. 

Having — ^it is to be hoped satisfactorily— explained who Sylvester 
was, it 'wdll now be quite right to proceed. 

And it Avill, in the first place, be necessary to state that Sylvester, at the 
period of the death of Dr. Sound, was in the seventeenth year of his age. 

He was tall and slightly made, and while his features were finely 
formed, his jet black hair, which himg in ringlets over his shoulders, 
contrasted strongly with his countenance which was pale in the extreme, 
and of which the expression was that of repose. There was, indeed, the 
spirit of mischief lurking in his eye, but while he was awake that spirit 
was asleep: it developed itself only in his dreams. It was then that it 
prompted him to perpetrate all sorts of wild and extraordinary tricks : 
it was then that it converted him from a calm, graceful, amiable youth, 
into a perfect little devil. 

This, to a certain extent, was known to the doctor: hence it was that 
he was kept so constantly af home ; but it was not known to any other 
creature in existence : it was not known even to Sylvester himself; he 
was perfectly unconscious of being a somnambulist : he had not even the 
most remote suspicion of the fact ; nor had he, when awake, the slightest 
recollection of the di'eams upon which he had acted. During sleep, 
indeed, his recollection of their nature was most perfect — he would, 
for example, frequently commence a letter one night and finish the next 
— ^but when awake, his memory, as far as those dreams were concerned, 
was in oblivion. 

Anxiously had the doctor watched him night after night. He had 
even allowed him to go from his chamber, but although he closely fol- 
lowed, he never checked him. He felt perfectly sure that the means 
which he had adopted in his owu case — ^lie having been himself a som- 
nambidist — ^Avould eventually cure his son ; and certainly, in the case of 
Sylvester, a cure might by those means have been effected, biit just as 
a change became perceptible, the doctor unliappily died. 

Diu*ing the week which elapsed between the death of Dr. Sound 
and his funeral, Sylvester remained in the house; but the day following 
that on which the ceremony was performed, his Aimt Eleanor — a maiden 
lady of exemplary character — took him to her cottage at Cotherstone 
Grange — about fifteen miles from the residence of her late brother — con- 
ceiving that an immediate change of scene might be highly beneficial to 
his health, as he was then more than usually languid. 

On their way to the Grange, Sylvester was silent, and as of course 
Aunt Eleanor ascribed this silence to the grief which sprang from the 
loss they had sustained, she felt it to be her duty as a Christian to offer 



THE SOMNAMBULIST. 3 

him all the consolation at her command. And she did so; but M-ithont 
much apparent effect. She, moreov(?r, with the view of diverting his 
thoughts, pointed out, as they proct^edtnl, every object which she held 
to be in the slightest degree remarkable, but nothing could c^hwr him— 
nothing could rouse liim from the reverie in which he indulged, initil 
they approached the Parsonage-house, which stood within three liundred 
yards of the Cottage. Of this place Sylvester took esp(.*cial notice; and 
It was an exceedingly beautiftil little place, in the centre of a most de- 
lightful garden, and surroimded by a wall, which appeared to Ije studded 
with nectarines and peaches. He even — albeit languidly— expressed 
his admiration of the fine appearance of this delicious fruit ; but it was 
soon lost to view, and he was silent again. 

Now, much has been written and said of old maids. They have 
been spoken of in terms of the deepest contempt; painters have repre- 
sented them with crabbed aspects, scraggy necks, yellow complexions, 
busts particularly bony, and fingers long, flesliless, and cold; while 
writers have described them as being skinny, toothless, arrogant, ma- 
licious, and wretched ; but if the libellous painters and writers in ques- 
tion mean to contend that these are the prevailing characteristics of old 
maids in the aggregate, it will be at once perfectly clear that they never 
have studied the real flesh and blood. Their's are merely conventional 
old maids! Henceforth let these libellers paint and write from Nature! 
Let them do justice to those who compose that honourable — albeit, pecu- 
liar — ^species of hiunanity, who have^studied the respective characters of 
their suitors too deeply to be ensnared — ^^vho have met with none but 
those whose views were selfish, and whose affections were impui'e — who 
have not allowed their judgment to be blinded by passion — who have 
imagined man's love to be ethereal but have not found it so— who have 
never had the wish to make, in a worldly sense, a good match, and who 
have had sufficient sense to escape the miseries of a bad one! It is, of 
course, admitted that a few of these honourable old maids — for even their 
contemptuous sobriquet is associated with honoiu"! — may be bony, and 
not very mild; but the idea of making imamiable skeletons of them all 
is monstrous! — sufficiently monstrous to inspu-e indignation. Aunt 
Eleanor was an old maid, and she was no skeleton : nor was she malicious, 
nor toothless, nor wretched. On the contrary, her figure approached 
en hon point; her teeth were white and sound, and her skin was soft 
and clear : she had, perhaps, a finer — a more animated — ^bust than any 
other lady in the coimty! — she was, moreover, just, benevolent, amiable, 
and pure, while her heart was full of tranquil joy, for she was in spirit 
wedded to her God. 

Nor was there in this lovely cottage of hers the slightest thing indi- 
cative of the residence of an old maid. Everything indeed was neat 
and elegant; everything was arranged with the most exquisite taste; 
but there was no minute primness perceptible : — ^nor must it be ima- 
gined for a moment that if the whole of her highly-prized china and 
glass had been swept from the sideboard and broken to atoms, she 
would have shed a single tear. No : nothing but love and sympathy 
could wring a tear from her, 

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4 SYLVESTER SOUND 

For twenty years she had livt*d in that cottage, and ahhough her 
pecuniary means wt»re conijxiratively large, her establishment was 
small, inasmuch as it consisted only of a cook, a housemaid, and a gar- 
dener, who ofKciattnl also as groom. By her imiform kindness she had 
completely w<mi the hearts of* these domestics: they were strongly, 
deeply attached to her, and hence, when they flew to the gate as the 
chaise di*ew up, they welcomed her home indeed. 

Knowing the time exactly at which her mistress would return, the 
cook had prepared a delicious dinner, which, as soon as Aunt Eleanor 
had changed lier di^ess, was serv'ed up with characteristic elegance. 

And Sylvester — ^albeit cahn and sUent^-did justice to the viands pre- 
pared ; and Axmt Eleanor, in order to cheer him, insisted upon his 
taking tvvo glasses of ^vine! — hut finding after dinner that he still felt 
languid, she— conceiving that the excitement of the preceding day, and 
the journey that morning, had exhausted his spirits — prevailed upon him 
to retire to his chamber, and enjoined the servants not to disturb him. 

To his chamber Sylvester accordingly repaired, and having partially 
undressed himself, reposed on the bed and went to sleep. He had not, 
however, slept ten minutes, when he began to dream of the nectarines 
and peaches he had seen on the wall of the parsonage garden, and being 
inspired to action by the dinner he had eaten, and the ^vine — ^the two 
glasses of ^vine — ^he had di*ank, he re-dressed himself, and left the 
cottage unperceived. 

Afl he quietly walked towards the garden of the parsonage, none 
could have supposed that he was then fast asleep! — ^his eyes were open, 
and he looked — not vacantly, nor with an intense stare, but precisely 
as if he had been awake — at every object he passed. And thus he 
reached the garden wall, which he mounted with alacrity and ease, and 
having cleared from a very convenient spot the broken bottles, which 
the reverend gentleman had most humanely caused to be stuck upon 
the wall — ^in reality with the view of phlebotomizing trespassers, but 
nominally in order to keep off the cats — he sat down and freely partook 
of the peaches, which really were very fine indeed. And he enjoyed 
them much, and ate no inconsiderable quantity of them, for they were 
in his judgment delicious; but just as he had eaten to satiety, the 
reverend gentleman, to whom the fruit legally belonged, espied liim, 
and, having recovered from the shock, which this proceeding — which 
he held to be one of the most barefaced audacity — induced, rushed into 
the garden 'with all the velocity his shortness of breath, and portliness 
of person would permit, exclaiming, "Jones! Jones!" in tones of indig- 
nation — ^for he really was very indignant at the time — and in an instant 
Jones, the gardener, appeared. 

" Jones," he continued, pointing fiercely to Sylvester; " thafs how the 
peaches go! — that's the way!" 

Jones looked at Sylvester utterly astounded. Was it — could it be — 
possible? And that, too, before his very eyes! He was about to spring 
upon him with all the ferocity of a tiger ; but Sylvester, having eaten 
all the i>eaches he could eat, at that moment dropped from the waD, and ' 
disappeared. 



'f#^ 




.^> r ^^^'^/^V ^y,^/ /CJ, ,^U>^^ 



THE SOMNAMBULIST. O 

"He's off!" cried the pastor. "Follow him, Jones! but don't say a 
word: he is clearly respectable. See where he goes, Jones, and then let 
me know." 

Jones rushed to the gate and followed Sylvester's footsteps ; and when 
he saw him actually enter the cottage, he returned to the pastor and 
made the fact known. 

But then — what was to be done? Aiuit Eleanor was a lady for 
whom the reverend gentleman entertained the highest respect! The 
question ^nth him therefore was, whether he ought to wound her feel- 
ings by complaining of that which had occiured, or to take no farther 
notice of the matter. He was soon, however, prompted to answer this 
question by the thought of his peaches. He could not in silence endure the 
loss of them. They were the finest in the county! — nay, in his judgment, 
Europe could not produce peaches at all comparable with them. He 
therefore resolved to proceed to the cottage, and to the cottage he did pro- 
ceed, followed by the gentle Jones, who absolutely swelled with indignation. 

As they passed through the gate. Aunt Eleanor, who saw them, and 
who held the reverend gentleman in very high esteem, rang the bell for 
the servant to open the door, and then received him with all her charac- 
teristic cordiality and grace, while the highly indignant Jones remained 
swelling at the door. 

" My dear madam," said the pastor, as soon as he had recovered the 
power to speak, for the occmTence had induced a dreadful state of ex- 
citement, which his sharp walk to the cottage had by no means subdued, 
" My dear madam, I regret — I exceedingly regret — that I should have 
to call on business of a nature so unpleasant ; but you have, I believe, 
a young gentleman here?" 

" My nephew!" replied Aimt Eleanor. " I brought him with me this 
morning, and a sweet little fellow he is !" 

" I am sorry," returned the reverend gentleman, " I am indeed very 
sorry to be compelled to say that he is unhappily addicted to practices 
which I AviD not exactly designate audacious — " 

" Sir!" 

" But which are, in my judgment, highly improper." 

"You amaze me!" exclaimed Aunt Eleanor; and really the amaze- 
ment she expressed was veiy striking. " My nephew addicted to prac- 
tices which you deem highly improper! Why, he is one of the mildest 
and most inoffensive little fellows that ever breathed! He would not 
hurt a worm!" 

" It may be true that he would not hurt a worm ; but I know him to 
be very fond of peaches." 

"That is very possible! and I submit very natural. But may I be 
permitted to know what you mean?" 

" Why it is, my dear madam, with the greatest reluctance that I make 
a complaint of this natm-e to you ; but I think that it may be highly 
beneficial to him, for we know that if om- vices in youth be unchecked 
they gi'o>v with our gi'owth and strengthen with oiu- strength." 

" Dear me!" cried Aunt Eleanor, " why — what on earth can have oc- 
curred?" 



6 STLVESTSB 80UKD 

" Sitting in my study, ten minutes ago, I perceived through the win- 
dow a youth upon the wall, freely helping himself to my peaches. Well! 
as I, of course, disapproved of tliis proceeding — for, had he asked me for 
the peaches he should have had them with pleasure — I went out, and 
calling Jones, my gardener, desired him to expostulate with the youth; 
but the moment he appeared the youth dropped from the wall, and 
Jones, who followed hhn, informs me that he saw liim enter here." 

"Impossible!" exclaimed Aunt Eleanor. "My nephew is the only 
youth I have about the premises!" 

"What is the age of yoiu* nephew, may I ask?" 

** About seventeen." 

" Has he black hair, flowing freely over his shoulders?" 

"He has." 

" I am sorry then to say, my dear madam, that he is the youth who 
purloined my peaches." 

" But really! — ^my dear *iV/— Oh! it cannot he! The dear boy has 
been in bed and asleep for the last hour." 

" Is he asleep now?" inquired the reverend gentleman. 

Aunt Eleanor rang the bell, and when the servant appeared, she de- 
sired her to go into Sylvester's room, and to ascertain whether he really 
was asleep or not. 

" This is strange," said Aimt Eleanor; " very strange, indeed!" And 
the pastor echoed this observation, by sajdng that it was strange, very 
Strange, indeed. 

" Well, Mary?" said Aunt Eleanor, when the servant re-appeared. 

"Master Sylvester sleeps like a top, ma'am," promptly replied 
Mary. 

" I thought so!" observed Aunt Eleanor. " I knew that he would. 
The poor dear boy was exhausted." 

"Well; this is very extraordinary!" said the reverend gentleman, 
who couldn't tell at all what to make of it. " Really, I should very 
much, indeed, like to see him." 

" For youi' satisfaction, he shall be at once awakened." 

" Oh dear me, no! There is not the least necessity for that." 

" Then will you do me the favour to walk up and see liim?" 

" Why, if you particularly wish me to do so," replied the reverend 
gentleman, "I ^vill!" And he rose from his seat, and Amit Eleanor 
rose too ; and Mary, who couldn't conceive what it meant, led the way 
Up to Sylvester's room. 

"Poor boy!" said Aunt Eleanor. "There he is, and there he has 
been for the last hour*" 

That he was there, then, appeared to the reverend gentleman to be 
abundantly clear ; but that there he had been for the last hour, was in his 
calm judgment, apocryphal-^=— very. He cotdd not believe it. Why — it 
was the Very face— the very hair!- It was tnoreover plain, that he was 
then sleeping soimdly : the pastor had no doubt at all about that ; but, 
as he wished very much indeed to see him awake, he dropped his stick 
— ^very accidentally, of cOui'se, — and thus produced a noise which had 
the effect desired* 



THE SOMNAMBULIST. 7 

"My dearest boy!" said Aunt Eleanor. "Oh, I am sorry that we 
have disturbed you." 

Sylvester sat up in bed and rubbed his eyes, and then looked at the 
reverend gentleman, precisely as if he wished to know who he was and 
what he wanted. 

"Lie down, dear, again," said Aimt Eleanor, sootliingly. "You 
must be fatigued, deari you look very weary still." 

The reverend gentleman shook liis head, and that, too, ivith so much 
significance, that any close observer might at once have perceived that 
Sylvester was, in his view, very artful. Aunt Eleanor, however, did 
not observe this : she felt that the " mistake" had been sufficiently seen, 
and, therefore, left the chamber, Ibllowed by her reverend friend. 

"WeD!" said that gentleman, on his return to the ptu'loiu*, "Really! 
Upon my word, he bears a very striking resemblance to the youth 
whom I saw upon my garden wall!" 

" Indeed! Well, that is strange," returned Aunt Eleanor, " I know of 
no youth at all like liim." 

" There must be one in the vicinity whom he very much resembles!" 

" How very extraordinary! Why, whom can it be!" 

" Indeed, I know not," rettu-ned the reverend gentleman, " there 
appears to be some little mystery about it, which probably time will 
solve. I have only to say that I am soiTy the affair happened, and beg 
to apologise for the trouble I have given." 

At this moment Sylvester entered the room in the same dress as 
that in which he appeared upon the wall, and no sooner had he entered, 
than the pastor — who now, of coui'se, felt quite convinced of his being tlie 
delinquent — said, " Well, yomig gentleman, did you enjoy those peaches?" 

Sylvester looked at him earnestly for a moment, and then observed, 
calmly, " What peaches do you aUude to? I do not know that I have 
tasted a peach this season!" 

The reverend gentleman hereupon regarded him with an expression 
of horror! He felt it to be awful in the extreme! and shuddered at 
the thought that a falsehood so flagrant should proceed from the lips of 
a smner so young! Recovering himself, however, from the shock thus 
produced, he, with an aspect of severity, said, " Pray, sir, have you 
ever heard or read of Ananias?" 

" I have, sir. But w^hy put that question to me ?" 

" Because you have said distmctly that you have not, to youi* know- 
ledge, tasted a peach this season ; whereas, within the last half-hour I 
saw you upon my garden- wall, eating my peaches to absolute satiety!" 

" Let me assure you, sir," retiu-ned Sylvester, firmly, " that you arc 
mistaken. I feel that I am utterly incapable of such bad conduct." 

The calmness, the firmness, the apparent truthfulness with which 
this assurance was given, had a manifest tendency to shake the reverend 
gentleman's conviction. And yet — was it possible that he could be mis- 
taken? There stood the very youth ! or if he were not the very youth, how 
strong was the resemblance! He had preached the fallibility of the flesh : 
he felt that he himself was not, in a general sense, infallible : but then, 
in this particular, — and yet the very presence*-the very look — ^the very 



8 SYLVESTER SOUKD 

tones of the youth who stood before him, were indicative of innocence. 
He had never before felt so perfectly puzzled ; still he did say eventually, 
" Well, my dear madam, I suppose that I must be mistaken — ^but really I 
—perhaps, however, you will allow me to call in my gardener?^ 

" Oh, my dear sir," said Aunt Eleanor, "do so at once, by all means T 
And Jones was accordingly summoned. 

" Do you know this young gentleman, Jones?" said the pastor. 

"Know him, sir!" replied Jones, utterly astonished at the question 
being asked; " I should know him from a million!" 

" But are you sure, Jones, that this is the identical youth whom we 
saw on the wall just now?" 

" Sure!" — echoed Jones, who i-eally felt the idea of his not being sure 
to be perfectly ridiculous — " Of course, sir, Tm sure." 

" Man!" said Aunt Eleanor, " adhere to the truth." 

" Oh! that's true enough, ma'am. I'd swear it." 

" Swear it!" 

" I know liim by the cut of his clotlies." 

"Although, Jones, that is strong collateral evidence," observed the 
reverend gentleman, profoundly, " I do not hold it to be conclusive. 
There may be other garments of the same description. — I look at the 
countenance. Man may copy the works of man, but Nature never 
copies herself. Among the myriads of human beings in existence there 
are not even two individuals to be found with features precisely alike, 
albeit, there may be, as in this case, a striking resemblance. Nor is this 
amazing peculiarity confined exclusively to the human species. The 
flocks that range the verdant fields, the beasts which prowl in the fright- 
ful jimgle, the fish that inhabit the boimdless sea, and the birds which 
float in the balmy air — ^nay, even the very vermin which tumiel the 
earth — have all the same wonderful individuality. Still, as one sheep 
may be mistaken for another, by those who know not the peculiar ex- 
pression of that sheep, so may one youth be mistaken for another, as we 
have, in this case, perhaps, sufficiently proved." 

All that Jones imderstood of this he appreciated, but half of that 
which reached his understanding was not much. He had no notion at 
all, however, of giving the thing up in this way, and therefore he said, 
with much point — " But does the young genelman himself mean to say 
it aint him?" 

" I mean to say," returned Sylvester, calmly, " that I have been fast 
asleep for the last hour." 

" Well, send I may live!" exclaimed Jones. 

" Hush! hush!" cried the reverend gentleman. 

"Well, but in all my creepings upP^ resumed Jones — "Here! take 
me afore a justice. I'll oath it it's him, afore any judge or jury in na- 
ture. But," he added, turning to Sylvester, " do you mean to look me 
in the face, and tell me that it wamt you as was upon our waU a peg- 
ging away at them peaches there? — only say?" 

" I hope, my dear aunt," observed Sylvester, with unaffected mildness^ 
" that you do not believe I could have been guilty of such an act?" 

" No, my dear; certainly not." 






THE SO^IXAMBULTST. 9 

" Sir," added Sylvester, addressing the reverend gentleman, " I shoidd 
be utterly ashamed of myself if even I felt that I could." 

The pastor, notwithstanding the resemblance was still in his judgment 
amazing, was now inspired by Sylvester's tranquil lx»aring, with the 
conviction that he must be mistaken, and tried to imioculate Jones with 
the same conviction ; but Jones would not have it. He knew what he 
knew! — ^he knew that the youth who stood Ixjfore him, and the youth 
who was on the wall, were one and the same youth I and said so! and 
stuck to it firmly! — ^indeed so firmly, that the reverend gentleman at length 
desired him to leave the room. 

Now it happened that Judkins, Aunt Eleanor's gardener — ^who, con- 
ceiving that Jones had come there "with a view to supplant him, had 
kept an exceedingly sharp look out — ^^viis at hand ; and it also happened 
that Judkins had a great contempt for Jones, seeing that Jones, at the 
last horticultiu-al meeting of the county, had gained the first prize for 
caiTots ; while Jones had as great a contempt for Judkins, seeing that 
Judkins had gained the first prize for onions, whereas, Jones knew that his 
onions were superior to those which Judkins had pix)duced, while, in Jud- 
kins's judgment, his carrots were finer than any which Jones had the 
nous to raise. Their hatred of each other was therefore rooted ; and, as 
Judkins had heard the substance of all that had been said about the 
peaches, he taunted Jones severely on his being desired to leave the 
room ; and as Jones most vehemently retorted and maintained still that 
Sylvester was the youth by whom his master's peaches had been stolen, 
Judkins said something very severe about Jones's carrots, and imnted 
him to the meadow, "vvith the view of deciding whether Sylvester was the 
youth in question or not. At this Jones was notliing daunted : he ac- 
cepted the challenge ; and when Judkins had called a mutual friend from 
the road, for the purpose of seeing fair-play, they repaired to the meadow 
with bosoms fraught with disgust. 

There have always been, even from the most remote period of which 
history takes cognizance, advocates for that grand social scheme which 
comprehends trial by battle. Some have chosen clubs for these trials, 
some axes, some daggers, some spears, while others have prefen-ed rifles, 
pistols, and swords ; but a far more civilised mode of deciding thus the 
merits of a case in dispute is, unquestionably, that which was in this 
particTilar instance adopted by Judkins and Jones. 

Certainly, the practice of doing battle Avith the fists was the first step 
to civilisation. When men began to substitute the weapons Avith which 
Nature had provided them for battle-axes, tomahawks, and knives, 
society made a most important stride towards pei-fection. As civilisa- 
tion progresses, men will substitute the use of the tongue for that of the 
fist : when that has been sufliciently practised, the use of the brow will 
supersede that of the tongue ; and when we shall have reached the per-- 
fection of civilisation, men •will merely treat ^vith contempt those whom 
they know to be unworthy of respect. At the period of Judkins's and 
f Jones's battle, civilisation had made but that one important stride ; and 
as they were not behind the age in which they lived, they — ^repudiating 
pistols, knives, and swords— repaired to the meadow and stripped. 



10 SYLVESTER SOUND 

It was a lovely day! [It is of course highly essential to the progress 
of this history that these most remarkable observations should be made.] 
The sun shone — as the sun will sometimes shine — ^lirilliantly, and while 
it shone, all nature, with the exception of Jones and Judkins, looked gay. 
The sheep in the distance were nibbling the turnips ; the stubble was 
studded with crows ; the leaves on the trees around looked green ; and 
the larks were merrily singing in the air I This was precisely the extra- 
oi-dinary state of things when Judkins and Jones assumed the attitude 
of defiance, and looked at each other with a species of ferocity perhaps 
altogether imexampled. As pugilists, however, they were not scientific. 
They were, moreover, bulky and very short-winded, and therefore ex- 
ceedingly slow; nor was there any particular time kept. No: at the end 
of each round, that is to say, when they retreated from each other with 
the view of " taking breath," they sat upon the grass, sometimes for 
three minutes, sometimes for five. Time to them was a matter of no 
importance — ^they had not been in the habit of hiu-rying themselves, 
and they had not the least intention to hurry themselves then. Nor was 
their friend in any sort of haste; he was remarkably patient and re- 
markably impartial: indeed, so impartial, that when, at the expiration of 
twenty minutes, Judkins, who had neither received nor given any blow 
of importance, wanted some beer, he declared that he wouldn't fetch it 
unless he had a like commission from Jones. For this commission, 
however, he had not to wait long, and when he started for the beer, it 
was with this imderstanding, that there was to be an absolute cessation 
of hostilities until he returned. The truce thus established, neither of 
the combatants had the least desire to violate; it was, therefore, on both 
sides, honourably observed: but during the absence of their mutual 
friend reflection came, and their indignation cooled, and hence, on the 
return of that friend, Judkins said to Jones, " Now you know I'm not 
afraid of you! — quite the contrary — but as I shouldn't like to have 
a black eye, and as the parson, I know, wouldn't like to see you with 
your front teeth knocked out (Judkins thought that this was about the 
strongest way to put it) ; if you like, we'U establish no hitting in the face." 

" Where are we to hit, then?" said Jones, who was tired of it— quite! 
— ^it was very hard work! " If we are not to hit in the face, where are 
we to liit?" 

" I'll tell you," interposed their mutual friend, " hit each other in 
the hand, and then drink, and make it up. If you don't do this, I'll 
spill the beer." 

This settled the matter at once. Judkins thought of Jones's carrots, 
and Jones thought of Judkins's onion prize; but as it was perfectly 
clear to them both that they couldn't get on "without beer, they, with a 
laudable show of reluctance, allowed their friend to join their hands, 
and thus preserved their honour intact, inasmuch as their bright reputa- 
tion for courage remained untarnished, albeit the real point at issue was 
undecided still. 

During the progress of this memorable battle, Aunt Eleanor prevailed 
upon the reverend gentleman to remain and take tea, and, as Sylvester 
soon became a favouiite with the pastor, he, in the course of the even- 




/^. 



, /,. , y/.//Vw . ////^< 



THE flOVKAHllUUST. 11 

ing, proposed a ride round the ndjoining park. Sylvester of course 
consented at once, and when the ^mstor^s horse had been sent for, and 
Aunt Eleanor's pony had been saddled, they started, and after riding 
until the moon rose, the reverend gentleman saw him safely home, and 
bade him adieu for the night. 



CHAPTER m. 

IN WHICH THE FIRST ALARM IS CREATED. 

How soft and serene is the harvest moon I— how calm, how beauti- 
ful, how bright! When all around is tranquil and clear, and the night- 
ingale sings in her sweetest strain, how touching the tones of endear- 
ment sound!' — who would not kiss? — ^who could not love? Then Night 
discards her sombre veil, and — mounting her wliite one studded with bril- 
liants—celebrates that lovely mom when she became the bride of Day. 

Now these few important remarks have been suggested by two 
most extraordinary facts, namely — ^that on the first night that Sylvester 
slept at the cottage, the harvest moon was at the full, and that about 
twelve o'clock that very night, Aimt Eleanor's cook heard a noise. 
She and Mary — ^they slept together — ^liad been in bed nearly two 
hours; but cook was twenty years Mary's senior, and, being afflicted 
with pains in the joints, was far more wakeful than Mary, who 
invariably buried herself in the clothes^ and slept away profoundly. 

And the difference between the various species of sleep is amazing: 
some will sleep quietly, others very noisily — some very lightly, others 
very heavily — some very sweetly, others very wildly — some very 
languidly, others very soundly — ^but without going into any deeply 
philosophical treatise on sleep, it will be, perhaps, sufficient here to 
state that a bedfellow's snore is a most imique nuisance, and that 
anything equal to Mary's snore in the annals of snoring could never 
be found. 

"Mary!" whispered cook, when she first heard the noise, "Mary!— 
Did you hear that?— Mary!— ^re you dead?" 

Hiat the question — " Are you dead?" — ^was supererogatoiy, is a fact 
which must, it is submitted, be to every highly intellectual person 
apparent: inasmuch as in the first place a question implies the expec- 
tation of an answer) and in the next it is perfectly well known to the 
intelligent that dead individuals never snore. This affords another sad 
and imequivocal proof of the lamentable want of education. Had this 
cook been conversant with the classics > she never could have asked 
such a question; but as she knew nothing at all about them — and 
moreover didn't want to know — she not only put this question to Mary, 
but announced it as being her unbought opinion that the girl really 
was deadl-Hshe slept so soundly and snored so well» 



12 StLTESTER SOUXD 

" Mary r conrinned cook, as the noise increaseclY " Maryf — here she 
shook and pinched her angrily — ^"'thc girl muui be dead. Maiy! — 
Mary!" 

" It isn't six yetr yawned Mary. 

" Six! — listen! — hush!— do you hear?" 

" What's the matter?'' said Marv. 

"Hark!' 

" Oh, it's the cat." 

" It's no cat, Mary! Hark! There it is again f 

At this avffal moment, they both heard footsteps — they heard them 
distinctly* — and every step seemed to press upon their hearts. 

" Oh!" exclaimed Mary, *' What is to become of nsT 

" Hush!" cried cook; " Hush! hushf 

Tlie footsteps approached ! they came gradually nearer, and still more 
near! and cook and Mary hugged each other closely, with a view to 
mutual protection. At length the footsteps reached the door, and cook's 
heart sank within her. 

"D-d-d-on't be frightened, Mary!" she exclaimed; "D-d-d-on't be 
frightened! Oh! if we should both l)e ruined!" 

" Shall we scream?'' said Mary. 

" Hark!" cried cook, as the footsteps receded; " Hark, they are going 
down stairs— do you hear them?" 

" I d-d-d-do," replied Mary, " Oh, how d-d-dreadful!" 

The sound of the footsteps grew more and more faint, until they were 
heard in the passage below, when the noise increased!— the very chairs 
seemed to move! then bolts were withdrawn, and at length a door 
closed, when all was still as death again. 

"They're gone!" said cook, who, while intensely listening to these 
dreadful soimds, had perspired with so much freedom, that the sheets 
were quite wet. " Thank heaven! they are gone." 

" Are you siu-e of it?" cried Mary, trembling frightfully — " quite sure!" 

" Quite," replied cook, " I heard the door close." 

No sooner had Mary been assured of this fact, than she uttered a 
series of the most fearful screams that ever proceeded from a htunan 
throat — ^^ Murder!" she continued, in tones the most piercing — "Mur- 
der ! — ^thieves ! — ^fire ! — niMx-der .'" 

" Mary — Mary !" exclaimed cook ; " hark !" 

The beU rang with violence. Theii* mistress had been alaimed. But 
then what was to be done? 

"Answer the bell, Mary," said cook; "go, and answer the bell." 

"3/6 answer the bell!" cried Mary. "Afe.' I couldn't do it — ^no, not 
if you'd give me the world ! Wliy they may be in missis's room — ^who 
knows! they may be a-murdering of her now! Oh, isn't it horrid?" 

The bell still violently rang, but neither cook nor Mary could stir. 
To protect their mistress they would at any other time have done much, 
but then — ^^vith their imagination teeming Avith murder — ^they could not 
answer that bell. 

They now heard footsteps again in the passage ; and as the very next 
moment, to their utter horror, they heard a loud knocking at their door, 



THE SOMNAMBULIST. 13 

they would, if they could, ttive simk into the earth. They were speech- 
less with terror — they ceased to breathe, and felt that all was lost. 

From this frightful state of suspense they were, however, soon re- 
lieved, for their mistress, having opened her chamber door to ascertain 
what had caused those dreadfid screams, was immediately answered by 
Judkins. They knew his voice, and could have blessed him. Harsh 
as it was — ^for Judkins had not a soil voice— celestial music could not 
then, in their ears, have sounded more sweetly. 

"Why, what on earth can be the matter?" enquired Aunt Eleanor. 
"What can it be?" 

" I don't know, ma'am, I'm sure," replied Judkins, " there's suffin 
wrong, somewhere: somebody shruck dreadful." 

" The shrieking was dreadful indeed; — ^it must have been Mary." 

" I've knocked at the door, but they seem dead asleep." 

" Oh, Judkins!" cried cook. "Oh, wait but a moment — Oh, we're 
not asleep !" and she put on her petticoat hastily, while Mary threw 
her's round her shoulders, and then struck a Ught. " Oh ! ma'am," 
continued cook, as she opened the door, " there's been thieves in the 
house — ^a whole gang of 'em ! Oh, we're so frightened ! I really thought 
that murdered we all should have been." 

" You've been dreaming," said Judkins ; " that's my notion. There's 
been no thieves here. Was that you that shruck?" 

" Oh, no, that was Mary. She knows as well as me, there was five 
or six of 'em at least !" 

"T%a/ there was," said Mary; "and murdered we must have been, 
if I hadn't screamed." 

" It's my belief you dreamt it," said Judkins ; " / didn't hear any 
noise." 

" Nor did I," interposed Aimt Eleanor. " But let us go down, and 
see if the things are disturbed." 

Down stairs they accordingly went : — Judkins boldly leading the way 
with a candle and a poker ; but it was at a glance plain that no thieves 
had been there. The rooms were precisely as they had left them : there 
was not a thing out of its place. The china was safe ; the plate was 
secure ; the front door was fast — in short, everything appeared so ex- 
actly as it should be, that Aunt Eleanor freely subscribed to the opinion 
that the whole affair had originated in a dream. 

" There, go to bed again, you silly people," she observed; " go to bed, 
and don't sleep on your backs. I am glad that that dear boy has not 
been disturbed. There, go to bed both of you, and, for heaven's, let us 
have no more screaming." 

" Well, but I'm sure, ma'am," said Mary, " oh! if I didn't " 

" There, don't say another word about it. — Good night." 

As they separated, cook looked at Judkins with great significance, 
and Judkins — ^who didn't at all approve of having his rest broken thus 
— ^looked with equal significance at her ; but he passed her in silence : 
nor did she even bid him good night. On returning to her room, how- 
ever, she said, in strict confidence to Mary, " Now I'll tell you what it is : 
you know, it's all perfect nonsense about our dreaming — ^that's of course 



14 SYLVESTER SOUND 

stuff : I know I heard footsteps, and so did yon, and so there can be no 
mistake about that. Now, I'll tell you what, Mary, between you and 
me, it*8 my belief, that the footsteps we heard were those of no other 
man in the world than Judkins! Tm sure of it, Mary: and Tm not often 
wrong. Now, what right had he there, I ask? What was he doing? 
Depend upon it, Mary, he was after no good!" 

Certainly Judkins, who slept over the kitchen, and who had a private 
staircase to his room, had no right, unless summoned, to be in any other 
part of the premises at midnight; and, as he was the very person who 
had suggested that they had been dreaming, it unquestionably did in 
cook's judgment seem strange ; but just as she was about to take a some- 
what more comprehensive view of the private character of Judkins, she 
went to the window, and through it beheld a white figure moimted upon 
a white horse, leaping the hedges, and dashing through the meadows as 
if he had been folUowing the hounds in full cry. 

" Mary! Heaven preserve us!" she exclaimed. " What is this?" 

Mary rushed to the window, and in an instant cried — "Oh! it's a 
ghost!" 

" Nonsense! — ghosts don't ride on horseback!" 

" Oh! but they do though, sometimes." 

" It's no ghost, I tell you ;— that there is a thief, and that thief is your 
sweetheart, the miller." 

" I tell you it's not then!" cried Mary, indignantly. " He a thief, in- 
deed! WeU, I'm sure." 

" I know him by the way in which he rides, and I never did think 
he was better than he should be. Depend upon it, Mary, he's been in 
the house, and when we frightened him away, he stole the horse out of 
the stable, for I'll take my oath that's Snorter — ^look !" 

Away the white figure flew over the fields, and then made a circuit, 
and then crossed the road, when, as the moon shone full upon him, and 
he could with the utmost distinctness be seen, they made up their minds 
at once to point him out to Judkins, and with that view went to his door 
and knocked. 

" Who's there?" cried Judkms, somewhat startled, for he had just got 
into his second sleep. 

" Me !" replied cook; " its only me, Judkins !" 

" Well, what do you want?" 

" I was right aft^r all. Do come to the door." 

" Not a bit of it ! — not if I know it. Go to bed, and don't bother." 

" I tell you there's a thief about the premises." 

" I know there's a fool about the premises." 

" I've seen him !" returned cook. " He's just stolen Snorter !" 

" I "wish you were a Snorter with all my soul!" said Judkins, on get- 
ting out of bed. " Well," he continued, while putting on his smalls, 
" this is a very pretty game, I think! There's certainly nothing like a 
change! and such a change as this is, I must say, a treat ! — Now then," 
he added, on opening the door, " what fresh maggot's this you've got 
into your head?" 

" It's no maggot, Judkins," said cook ; " it's a fact. Look through 



THE BOMNAMBULIST. 15 

the window, and there youll see Snorter a galloping off with a man on 
his back." 

Judkins went to the window and looked, but as he could see nothing 
at all of the kind, he said pointedly — " What do you mean? Are you 
taken so often?" 

" I don't care," said cook, when, on looking herself, she foimd that 
the figure had vanished. "I know there was some man on Snorter. 
Am I not to believe my own eyes? Mary saw it as well." 

" Oh, you saw it, too .'" said Judkins, " did you?" Well, what was it 
like?" 

" It was for all the world like a ghost !" replied Mary. 
" It was a ghost," said Judkuis, ironically; "and nothing but a ghost. 
What sort of a swell was he, Mary?" 

" He was dressed all in white!" replied Mary. " There was not a bit 
of black at all about him." 

^Then of course he was a ghost. lie must have been a ghost. And 
didn't he spit fire, Mary? — and didn't his horse breathe bhie flame? — 
and didn't his eye-balls roll about? — and wasn't he in a white cloud?" 

" I'll tell you what it is," said cook, " I don't care a bit about what 
you say; I know what I know; and I tell you again, I saw a man 
riding away upon Snorter. Do you go down to the stable, and look : if you 
find Snorter there, then I've done. Just put on yoiu* coat, and go do^vn." 
" Why, what do you take me for?" said Judkins. " Wlio do you 
think you're a playing upon? You call this a frolic, I s'pose? You've 
begun a nice game, I know; but you don't play it out upon me. Go 
to bed; and let's have no more of your nonsense. If you come here 
again, I'll call missis ; she'll very soon put you to rights. You take me, I 
s'pose, for a fool, don't you? Be off!" 

Cook, perceiving that Judkins was highly indignant, muttered some- 
thing severe, and retired; and when she had had a few wann words 
with Mary, who felt extremely wroth at its being supposed that the 
miller was not all her fancy had painted, they both went to sleep, and 
slept well. 

But Judkins for a long time could not go to sleep: his indignation at 
the thought of being considered a fool, was so excessive. And, of all ideas 
of an unpleasing character, there is probably not one so galling to a man as 
that of his being considered to be a fool. He may think like a fool, he may 
speak like a fool, he may be conscious of having acted in a very foolish 
manner, he may even, confidentially, call himself a fool ; but no man thinks 
that he is a fool in the abstract, nor can any man bear to be thought 
a fool. And this is a wise provision of Nature. — ^A voise provision of 
Nature? — Well, it is an absurd conventional term; inasmuch, as all 
Nature's provisions are wise; and, therefore, perhaps, it had better be 
put thus : It is one of the provisions of Nature, and its admirable cha- 
racter is manifest in this ; that if fools knew they were fools, their value 
in their own estimation would be small, and all fools would be con- 
sequently wretched ; while the fact of its coming to their knowledge that 
they are by others supposed to be fools, prompts them to endeavour, at 
least, to act thenceforth wisely. 



16 8YXVESTER SOUND 

Tliis, prima facie, may appear to l)e very severe upon Judkiiis; but it 
is in reality not so, seeing tliat he was no fool, and that no one ever sup- 
posed him to be anj'thing like a fool. He was kept awake so long by 
the idea of its being imagined that he was a fool. But ^vhen he had 
sufficiently reflected upon the matter, that is, when he had proved him- 
self to himself, beyond all dispute on the part of himself, to be no fool, 
he went to sleep, and slept until six in the morning. 

Being, however, anxious to prove to cook, that he would have been a 
fool had he allowed himself to act on her suggestion, he no sooner rose 
than he went to the stable, which he found, to all appearance, externally, 
just as he had left it. The door was locked ; the key was still in the 
secret place above the door, and the way in which it turned when appUed 
to the lock, convinced him fully that the lock had not been forced. But 
the moment he entered, he saw at a single glance, that something was 
wrong. There stood the pony, and there stood Snorter ; but Snorter was 
saddled, and not only saddled, but literally covered with steaming foam! 

Judkins stood for a moment, looking at the animal with an expres- 
sion of amazement the most intense, and having thus viewed him from 
head to tail, he asked himself the following questions: — First: Where 
could the horse have been? Secondly: Wlio could have taken him out? 
Thirdly: What, under the circiunstances, was he to do? The two first 
questions he coiildn't at all answer ; he knew only this : that the horse 
had been out, and that he who had taken him out was no stranger: he 
therefore passed them to be considered anon, conceiving that the ques- 
tion which demanded his immediate consideration was the third: What, 
under the circumstances, was he to do? 

Should he go in and explain how matters stood in the stable? Would 
it be "svise to do so? He thought not. When he had dwelt upon the 
triumphant position in which cook would be thereby placed, he could 
not think that the pui^suit of such a coui-se would be at all uidicative of 
wisdom. Well then ; should he set to work and clean the horse at once, 
and say nothing whatever about it? This question was the germ of 
deep thought. It was, however, perfectly clear, that Snorter in any 
case must be rubbed down ; and, as Judkins felt that while rubbing him 
down he should have sufficient time to arrive at some decision, he pulled 
off his jacket, and went to work at once. 

Now while he Avas thus intently engaged, and hissing away like an 
angry serpent, cook glided past the stable door. She had come out 
expressly with the view of breaking loose in the event of Snorter 
having been stolen : it was her immovably-fixed determination to open 
in that event her whole mind to Judkins, and, therefore, it is not 
irrational to suppose that, had matters stood as she expected they 
would stand, and as indeed she really wished them to stand, she would 
have walked into him warmly; but as she saw the horse in reality 
there, and therefore felt that she must have been mistaken, in so far 
as the identity of the animal was concerned, she deemed it prudent to 
hold her peace, and silently worked her way back. 

Diu'ing the performance of this extraordinary feat, Mary, while 
assisting her mistress to dress, explained minutely to her all that had 



THE SOBINAMBULIST. 17 

occiUTed— enlarging of course upon every point, and swelling each ijito 
all possible importance. 

At first, Aunt Eleanor appeaix»d to rcgaixl the >vhole aftair as an 
excellent jest, and she really did enjoy the rt^ation of the circumstances 
highly; but when Mary, with gi-eat force and natural feeling, stated 
that ike miller was suspected of having taken the horse from the stable, 
her mistress — ^knowing the attachment which existed between him and 
Mary — ^felt herself bound to enquire into the matter, with the view of 
either clearing his character if innocent, or, in the event of his being 
guilty, of breaking off the match. 

She, accordingly, on descending to the breakfast-room, at once 
summoned Judkins and cook, and as cook was the first to attend that 
summons, she at once told her tale, and made one deep mystery of it. 
Judkins, however, was not long after her, and as he had decided upon 
sacrificing all private feeling upon the altar of duty, he came prepared 
to state the whole case. 

" Judkins," said Aunt Eleanor, as he entered, " how does the horse 
look this morning?" 

" Why, he's pretty well, considering, ma'am," replied Judkins. 

" Pretty well, considering — Considering what?" 

" Why, ma'am, considering that in all his bom days he never had 
such a sweating as, somehow or other, he has had since I locked him 
up last night. 

" Oh, then," said cook, who felt greatly relieved, and who turned 
upon Judkins — and he fully expected it — as if she had made up her 
mind to have at him, " it wasn't Snorter — it couldn't be Snorter — 
I was having a game with you, was I — it was one of my maggots — 
you'll call missis, won't you — ^it was only a frolic of mine — ^you are 
right and I'm wrong, of course ! Now I'll tell you what it is — '' 

"Presently, cook," interposed Aunt Eleanor, "have patience. We 
will hear you presently. Wliat do you mean by the sweating^ 
Judkins?" 

" Why, ma'am, when I went into the stable this morning, I found 
the horse saddled, and in a muck of sweat. Whoever could have got 
him out, /can't /Ai«A:.' It must have been some one who knows the 
premises, for the door was locked, and the key was in its right place, 
over the door." 

" Of course," exclaimed cook, " and the miller knew well where to 
find it." 

" Cook," said Aunt Eleanor, " how do you know that?" 

"Why, ma'am, he's always after Mary, and of course she tells him 
all she knows." 

" I know, cook, that you are jealous," said Aimt Eleanor, " but in 
order that the yoimg man may have an opportunity of vindicating his 
character, I will send for him at once. You know him, Judkins? — go, 
and without mentioning a syllable to him on the subject, tell him that I 
shall be glad to speak to him for a moment." 

Judkins, casting a look of contempt at cook, then left the room, and, 
«8 Sylvester immediately afterwards came in to breakfast, the whole 

c 



18 BYLVESTEH SOUND 

affair was fully explained to him by his aunt, who expressed herself 
highly delighted at the fact of his not having been disturbed. 

And Sylvester — ^who looked very languid and felt very sore — expressed 
his amazement at the circumstances related, and the interest which 
that relation excited was, in reality, deep in the extreme. 

" What could have been the man's object?" said he ; " he had clearly 
no intention to steal the horse, seeing that he brought him back, and 
locked the stable door. It appears to me to be so imaccountable ! — ^I 
can*t imderstand it at all !" 

"It is strange — ^very strange,** said Aunt Eleanor. "But come, 
my dear, let us have breakfast. Cook," she added, " send in that 
tongue." 

Cook left the room, and repaired to the pantry; but the state of 
things there was so startling, that she almost immediately returned, 
exclaiming, " Now, ma'am, I know there's been thieves in the house ! 
No tongue, no pastry, no sausage-rolls : not a single bit of any blessed 
tiling can I find ! Everything's gone ! There must have been half-a- 
dozen of them at least!" 

" Well, this,** said Aunt Eleanor, " is indeed extraordinary!" 

"And what gormandizers, too, they must have been!" resumed 
cook, " there was half a tongue, four sausage-roUs, six apple-puffs, 
three or four tarts — ^three jam-tarts, you know, ma'am — ^I know there 
were three — ^in short, they*ve eaten every individual thing!" 

"This is very mysterious!** observed Aunt Eleanor, calmly, "we 
shall probably understand it better by-and-bye. You must now do the 
best you can, my dear, with ham and eggs.** 

" Do not have anything cooked for me," said Sylvester, " indeed, I*ve 
no appetite at all!" 

Nor had he! The ham and eggs were ordered by his aunt, notwith- 
standing; but, when they were brought, he could not touch either. 
Nor could he in any way account for this. He usually ate a good 
breakfast! — ^but he really then felt himself full to repletion. Aunt 
Eleanor herself became very much alarmed ! Wliat on earth could be 
the cause of it? She couldn't imagine. She felt quite sure that he 
was sickening for something, and was just turning over in her mind the 
expediency of sending at once for her physician, when Judkins returned 
from the mill. 

On entering the room, he was eagerly followed by Mary and cook, 
who were both extremely anxious to hear the result; and, when it was 
announced that the miUer had started the preceding day to attend a 
distant market, and would not return until the morrow, Mary's 
expression of joy contrasted strongly -with that of disappointment, which 
instantly marked the fat features of cook, who sufficiently proved that 
there are feelings of jealousy which do not spring from pure love. For 
example : she didn't love the miller : still she thought that, instead of 
proposing to Mary, he should have proposed to her. She, with cha- 
racteristic candour, admitted it to be true that she was a trifle older 
— say twenty years or so — ^but then she was, in her judgment, a much 
finer woman ! — a, far more experienced — a larger-boned person ! She 



THE SO^DCAMBULIST. 19 

could not imagine how any man, having his eyes about him, could 
prefer such a skit of a thing as Mary to her. But so it was. Cook 
felt it to be so acutely, and hence she did hope* that it would have K^m 
proved that the miller had taken Snorter out of the stable ; but as it 
was then to all abundantly clear, that he could not by any possibility 
have been the man, the question which natiu-ally suggested itself, was 
— ^^ Whom could it have been?" That was the question ! And an 
interesting question it was. 



CHAPTER IV. 

THE CHUnCHYARD. 



As the world has ever been governed by mysteries — ^by mysteries 
amazed — ^by mysteries amused — ^by mysteries excited, subdued, and 
kept in awe — he, who could be, by his hopes of inunortality, prompted 
to grapple with, to open, and to spread completely out, the philosophy 
of mystery, would be, beyond all dispute, hailed by the mysterious as a 
great benefactor to his species. It wouldn't, however, do here : there 
isn't room for it: and even if there were, such a profoimd interference 
with the progress of this history wouldn't be exactly correct; but 
that a mystery is an affair which doth exercise over the human mind 
an immense amount of influence is manifest in this, that upon the mys- 
terious piece of business in question, Aunt Eleanor, during the whole 
moraing dwelt. 

She couldnH make it out! — ^and in the fact of its being apparently im- 
possible to be made out, consists the chief beauty of a mystery: — she 
sent for her reverend friend, but he could throw no light at all upon the 
subject; feeling, however, bound to do something, he very benevolently 
proffered his advice. 

" With respect," said he, " to the horse affair, I have nothing whatever 
to say, being utterly unable to conjecture with justice either how it oc- 
curred, or who could have been the man, but, as far as the pastry matter 
is concerned, I have a few words of advice to offer. The same thing oc- 
curred to me some yeai^s ago, when I kept an academy near Chat Moss. 
I was constantly losing my pastry. Night after night it went mth all 
the regularity imaginable. I couldn't tell how, but it went. I used 
even to lock the pantry-door and keep the key in my chamber : still it 
continued to go. Well, at length resolved to discover, if possible, the 
cause of all this, I, one evening, introduced a little gentle jalap, and pa- 
tiently waited the result, which was this, that in the moi-ning there was 
not a single youth in the establishment perfectly free from qualms! I 
then at once saw how the matter stood, of course! and although I took 
no apparent notice of the circumstance, my pastry was thenceforward 
safe. They wouldn't eat it, even when placed before them!— I couldn't 

c 3 



20 SYLVESTER SOUND 

persuade them to touch it! I therefore advise you, my dear madam, 
strongly to adopt the same course. It is certain to cure them! I know 
— ^I have proved it to be a specific!" 

Aunt Eleanor smiled : she moreover blushed : and, in order to hide 
that blush, she went to the sideboard, and having got out a decanter of 
sherry, placed it before him with a ghiss and some cake. The very 
sight of the wine— of which he was fond — ^made the reverend gentleman 
eloquent ; but the moment he had tasted it do^vn went the glass, and he 
made up one of the most extraordinary faces ever beheld! — ^lie screwed 
up his nose, and compressed his lips, and while drawing the comers 
right down to his chin, looked precisely as if he had been taking some- 
thing filthy. 

"Good gracious!" exclaimed Aunt Eleanor, laughing; for really the 
pastor's face was irresistibly droll — " what on earth is the matter?" 

The reverend gentleman shuddered and gnmted, and shook his head, 
and pointed to the glass on the table, with the view of intimating his 
strong disapprobation of the wine. 

" Do you not like the flavour of it?" 

" No-o-o-o !" repUed the reverend gentleman, shuddering, with even 
more violence than before. " It's phy-z-z-zic!" 

" Dear me !" said Aunt Eleanor, " why, it came out of the very same 
bin as the last!" 

The reverend gentleman did not care much about what particular 
bin it came out of — ^all he cared about was its peculiar flavour — which 
flavour really was, in his judgment, bad. 

" Some trick has been played with that "^vine," he observed, as soon 
as he was able to unscrew his mouth, " depend upon it some trick has 
been played." 

" Impossible, my dear sir !" exclaimed Aimt Eleanor, rising for a glass, 
with the view of tasting it herself. " Why, what!" she added, on putting 
her lips to it — " what, in the name of goodness, can it be?" 

" Filthy, isn't it?" observed the pastor. 

"Filthy!" exclaimed Aunt Eleanor, and bui*st at once into a merry 
peal of laughter. " Excuse me," she added, as soon as she could; " pray 
excuse me: I know that I am very, very rude, but you really do luake 
such 2k funny face !" 

Well, that, in the reverend gentleman's view, was rich. He would, at 
that particular moment, have felt great pleasui-e in being informed what 
man, possessing anything like a palate, could swallow — as he had swal- 
lowed — ^half a glass, or more, of that stuff*, without making up a face, 
which might be denominated fairly fimny. 

" Well," said Aunt Eleanor, who had been highly amused, and who 
then rang the bell, " we must rectify this." 

" You will never be able to rectify that!" said the reverend gentleman; 
" that's past all rectification." 

Aunt Eleanor — ^albeit, not much in the habit of laughing — ^laughed 
heartily again: and when Mary appeared, she gave her the key of the 
cellar, with the most tranquil face she could assume, and directed her to 
bring up a bottle of sherry. 



THE SOMNAMBULIST. 21 

The pastor looked at Mary, with an expression which seemed to indi- 
cate that he strongly suspected that she had been at that decanter. Mary, 
however, took no notice of this : she received her instnictions, and then 
left the room. 

" It's really very unfortunate,'' said Aunt Eleanor, " that you should 
have tasted the very first glass out of that particular bottle T' 

" My dear madam," retimied the pastor, " depend upon this that I 
have not had the first glass." 

"It was decantered yesterday: it has not since been touched." 

" To your knowledge, it may not have been ; but it strikes me forcibly 
that some one has been at it, substituting vinegar, or something of that 
sort, for three or four glasses of the wine." 

" Oh! I should say," rejoined Aunt Eleanor, " that there was some- 
thing in the bottle before the ^vine was put in." 

The reverend gentleman, however, still adhered strictly to his original 
opinion, which the wine in the fresh bottle tended to confirm. That 
was something like wne! and he said so: he, moreover, drank half a 
pint of it, in order to take the taste of the other out of his mouth ; 
and when this had been effectually accomplished, he briefly reverted to 
his gentle specific, and then, with many expressions of high considera- 
tion, took his leave. 

Sylvester, during the whole of this time, was sleeping soundly on the 
sofa. He had been prevailed upon by his aunt to lie down immediately 
afler he had made that apology for a breakfast; and, as, when he rose, 
which was not imtil just before dinner, he ate heartily again, all liis fond 
aunt's apprehensions vanished. 

He stiU, however, looked very languid and pale; and, in order to 
raise his spirits, she related what had occurred to her reverend friend, 
and then dwelt more at large upon the mysteries w^hich characterised 
the preceding night; and after having indulged in a variety of conjec- 
tures, of which the majority were very ingenious, she ordered the chaise, 
took him out for a drive, and then made every effort that affection 
could suggest, to amuse and to cheer him in the evening. 

About nine o'clock, however, feeling very much fatigued, he retired 
to rest. Aunt Eleanor in general went to bed at ten, and so did the 
servants, usually; but on this particular occasion, cook and Mary — 
peace between them and Judkins not having been proclaimed — sat alone 
till past eleven, over a bright kitchen fire, conversing on the subject of 
recent events, and relating a variety of ghost stories to each other in 
justification of their respective views. These stories, which are always 
of a deeply interesting character, made them shudder ; and, as some of 
them were indeed aw^, they were aspired "srith so much dread, that 
they both felt extremely umvUling to move. They had, moreover, been 
so intent upon these tales of the imagination, that the candle biuned 
down to the socket imperceived; for while cook, who retained the poker 
in her hand, kept on stirring the fire continually, Mary's eyes were fixed 
upon the brightest of the coals, in which she detected with much in- 
genidty the outlines of divers extraordinary faces. 

At length, the wick, deserted by that pure flame which had enveloped 



22 8TLTESTEB SOUKD 

it so long, and by wliich it had been so uninterruptedly wanned, siglied 
forth its dying breath. Cook smelt this: it reached her nostrils first; 
and, us experience had taught her to know in an instant what it was, 
slie turaed, on the impulse of the moment, ^vith the view of consigning 
it at once to the fire. She had scarcely, however, touched the candlestick 
which contained it, when her blood chilled with horror, for she heard 
distinctly footsteps approaching. Mary heard those footsteps, too; 
but they had not time to glance at each other, before the kitchen- 
door absolutely opened, and they beheld a tall figure envebped in a 
sheet. They tried to scream, but could not: terrcM: had stniok them 
diunb. They had risen from their seats, but stood utterly appalled. 

The figure, apparently unconscious of th&r presence, now glided 
gradually through the kitchen, and turning into the passage whidi led 
to the pantry, disappeared. But, although they could not ••• it theOf 
neither could speak, for they plainly heard it stm. 

Anon the figure again appeared, and their blood grew upgtBnoAf 
colder than before; and while their strained eyeballs seemed reidy to 
biu-st, they stood as if to that particular spot they had been abMmbely 
riveted! Still the apparition seemed not to perceive them: it slidta 
^N-ithout turning its head back to the door at which it had entereoi and 
when it had closed it ^vith the utmost care, they saw the appdlbg 
spectre no more. 

Now, although they were still half-dead with fright, and continued to 
tremble "vvith unexampled violence, the very instant the figure liad 
vanished, and all had l^ecome quite silent again, they simultaneoody 
uttered a scries of screams, of the loudest and most piercing charaoter. 

Sleeping, as he did, immediately over the kitchen, Judkins hend 
these frightful screams, and conceiving, from their nature, that tibqr 
did, in reality, mean something, he leaped out of bed, and rushtd 
into the passage: but as, by the light of the moon, he perceived, india- 
tinctly, the figure approaching, he rushed back again without any loss 
of time ; and, having locked his door in the twinkling of an eye, buried 
liimself beneath the bedclothes in a state of indescribable terror. 

The short space of time which the whole of this occupied, was indeed 
amazing. He had never displayed so much alacrity before — he had 
never in his life made so much haste. Under any other conceivable 
circumstances, he must have been utterly astonished at himself 1 he 
stopped for nothing — he was wonderfully active; no one who knew 
him could, for a moment, have imagined that he had so much activity 
in him. 

The screaming, however, continued still; and, at length. Aunt 
Eleanor, throwing a cloak around her, descended with her night-lamp, 
to ascertain the cause. She experienced no difficulty, of course, in 
discovering from what pai-ticular part of the house those screams pro- 
ceeded: she knew at once that they came from the kitchen, and hence, 
to the kitchen she quickly repaired; but the moment she lifled the latch 
of the door, cook and Mary sank upon their knees, and convulsively 
buried their faces in their hands. 

" Why, what in the name of goodness," said Aunt Eleanor, " can be 




//r y//tj/ f4//:'/'f^y / /^//'//-^^////y/. 



THE SOMNAMBULIST. 23 

the meaning of all this I cook — ^Mary — ^Maryl Answer me, instantly 
— ^what does it mean?" 

Cook, who at first imagined that the figure had returned, now sum- 
moned sufficient courage to raise her head; and the first words she 
uttered, were — " The gho-o-o-ost!** 

" The whatl" cried Aimt Eleanor. 

" Oh, ma'am!" said Mary; " oh, my good gracious me ! Oh, weVe 
been frightened to death, ma'am — ^a ghost has been here, ma'am— a real 
ghost! oh!" 

"Nonsense, Mary; how can you be so simple?" 

" We saw it come in, ma'am," interposed cook; " and we saw it go 
out. Oh, it was — ^horrid!" 

" Tut, tut — ^what on earth can be the matter with you both?" 

" We saw it, ma'am — ^indeed we did !— we both of us saw it, ma'am, 
with our own eyes!" 

" You saw it in imagination, merely. But, how is it that you are not 
in bed before this? Why it's half-past eleven o'clock I Have you both 
been asleep?" 

" No, ma'am," replied cook, " Mary and me have been talking." 

" I perceive — I perceive it all clearly; you have been talking about 
ghosts: now teU me the truth, is it not so?" 

" We had been talking about what we'd heard, ma'am; but as to this! 
I never saw anytliing plainer m my life." 

"Ridiculous, cook: I am surprised that a person of your yeai's 
should not know better! What's that!" she exclaimed, on hearing a 
noise above, produced apparently by the falling of some heavy weight. 
" Ring the gardener's bell. There is something going on, which I don't 
imderstand. Ring the bell." 

" Ye-e-es, ma'am," said Maiy, who, having been filled -with fresh 
alarm by the noise above, was siraid to move even to the rope — " I am 
so frightened!" 

Aunt Eleanor herself rang the bell, but no answer was returned. 
She rang it again with additional violence, and again! — ^and again! — 
still no answer. She couldn't of course pretend to accoimt for it. She 
thought it very strange; and as the world at large may also think 
it strange, it "svill be, perhaps, as well at once to explain the real 
cause. 

It has been already stated that it was not long before Judkins got 
into bed again. Nor was it. He got in any how. Nor did he care 
how! — ^he wasn't particular. His object was to get into bed, and he 
got in. But, being extremely anxious to conceal himself effectually, 
he darted beneath the clothes, which were all on one side, and there 
lay for a time motionless upon the very brink of the bedstead. Of this 
fact, however, he was perfectly imconscious, and therefore, when he did 
attempt to turn, he feU heavily upon the floor. That the ghost had 
induced this, he at that awful moment had not the slightest doubt» 
But he was into bed again in an instant, and there— of course utterly 
heedless of the bell — ^lie remained in perfect silence, imtil his mistress, 
tired of ringing, came up to his bedroom door and knocked. 



24 8YLVESTEU SOUND 

Judkins started! The knock alone seemed to convidse his whole 
frame. "Oh!" he exclaimed, "what have I done? what have I done? 
what have I done?" 

"Judkins!" said his mistress, but as she had caught cold, her voice 
was not sufficiently clear to be recognised, " Judkins!" 

" Leave me," he continued, " for heaven's sake leave me! I know 
I'm a miserable sinner, but leave me! Go somewhere else: youVe 
mistaken the room: indeed you have: you have, I assiu^ you!" 

When Mary and cook — who had followed their mistress closely, for 
then they would not have lost sight of her for the world — ^heard these 
awful words uttered, they felt quite convinced that, whatever mistake 
the ghost might have made, he was then in the room with Judkins. 
They were sure of it! — perfectly siu-e: and conceiving that their 
mistress must have inspired the same conviction, they implored her, in 
trembUng whispers, to retire. But no! — ^lier mind was firm! She was 
resolved to know, if possible, the cause of this delusion, and, therefore, 
knocked loudly again at the door. 

" Oh, pray go away," said Judkins, bitterly, " pray do!" 
"Judkins!" exclaimed Aimt Eleanor, "Judkins! — 'tis I! — ^your 
mistress !" 

" You, ma'am ! Oh, thank heaven ! is it you?" 
" Yes, His I. What is the matter? Dress yourself instantly, and 
open the door." 

Judkins, who felt of course greatly relieved, threw off the bed- 
clothes, and slipped on his smalls, but when, pale and trembling, he 
opened the door, his countenance bore still an expression of terror. 

" What is this, Judkms?" demanded Aimt Eleanor, " what can be the 
meaning of it all?" 

"Oh," repUed Judkins, who felt veiy ill, "the house is haunted: I 
know it is. — I've seen," he added, in a harsh unearthly whisj)er, " I've 
seen a horrid ghost." 

"Where?" said Aimt Eleanor, " I have really no patience ^vith you: 
where did you see it?" 

" There!" replied Judkins, still in a wliisper, pointing to the passage 
with startling effect, " There!" 

" Are you all mad /** exclaimed Aunt Eleanor, perceiving that they looked 
towards the passage, as if apprehensive of the " ghost's" re-appearance; 
" or is it all done to alarm me? There is," she added, with an expres- 
sion of intensity, " there is something, I fear, beneath the surface of this. 
If you have any bad design — ^if you are actuated by any unliallowed 
notions — if you have conspired together with the view of accomplishing 
any wicked object — pray, before you retire to rest, that heaven may 
turn your hearts !" 

With all the eloquence of which they were capable, they implored 
her to believe that they were attached to her sincerely — ^that they had been, 
and would continue to be, faithful to the last — and that the proceedings 
of that awful night, were ascribable, justly, to no wicked motive — ^no 
base conspiracy — ^no bad design. 

" I will speak to you all," she observed, " in the morning; but if— I 



THE SOMNAMBULIST. 25 

say if- — yoM have conspired together with any wicked object in view, 
may heaven forgive you. Good night." 

She then returned to her chamber and locked the door, leaving them 
greatly distressed at the idea of its being supposed that they had entered 
into any such conspiracy. They very soon, however, reverted to the 
ghost, when Judkins exclaimed, with all the fervour at his command— 
"If I didn't see it, why I didn't; hut if I didn't— I'm dumbl" 

" We saw it, too," said cook. 

"You did?" 

" It came into the kitchen!" 

"XWrfnV it look horrid?" 

" Oh, hideous ! Did you see it's face?" 

" The figure was qaite enough for me. I think I see it now!" 

" Where r cried Mary. " Oh — don't frighten us. Where?" 

" No, no; I mean that I shall never forget it ! But let us go to bed; 
missis is angry — ^I know she's angry; I never saw her angry before — ^l>ut 
Tm sure she's no cause ! One may be wrong — ^two may be wrong — ^but 
we can't all be wrong. We all of us saw it ; nothing can get over that ! 
But, good night — good night." 

Cook and Mary then retired, and when, with hearts still full of fear, 
they had got into bed, Mary went to sleep "wHith this expression on her 
lips — " Fm sure I shall not get a voxnk to-night." 

Now, while these scenes were being enacted at the cottage, dreadftd 
excitement prevailed near the church, and as it is essential to the due 
appreciation of the cause of this excitement, that the whole of the par- 
ticulars should be known, it will be correct to state those particulars 
here, with the names of the persons excited. 

It happened then, that on that very evening, a party of influential 
men had assembled at a house, of which the sign was " The Crumpet 
and Crown." This party consisted of Messrs. Blinkum, Pokey, Bobber, 
Snorkins, and Quocks, who were joined by another higlily influential 
person, named Obadiah Drant, who was really an immense politician ! 
— ^who could tell what the Emperor of China thought, and what were 
the strictly private feelings of the Czar — ^\io had the faculty of going 
over much more ground in the space of five minutes, than the Wandering 
Jew ever did in five years — and whose intimate associates appeared to 
be persons whom he called Billy Pitt, Harry Brougham, Johnny Russell, 
Charley Fox, and Bobby Peel. 

It may moreover be remarked — ^for it is remarkable — that in England 
we very seldom meet with a church without perceiving a public-house 
at hand. Sometimes it is opposite, sometimes next door, and sometimes 
even in the very churchyard. But whatever the relative positions may be, 
they are almost invariably foimd to be within a few yards of each other, 
as if every inhabitant, like every representative of Cato^ were expected 
to exclaim, " My bane and antidote are both before me!" Some, in- 
deed, may ascribe this remarkable association to the spirits, and some 
may attribute it solely to the beer; to some it may suggest the idea of 
those bosom friends — ^brandy and bitters — ^while others may imagine 
that the common announcement of " Good entertainment for man and 



26 STLYESTEB 80UKD 

beast," refers to the two establishments ; but whatever may be the mean- 
ing of this association, it is perfectly certain that the Crumpet and Crown 
was within twenty yards of the churcli — ^that the party assembled at the 
Crumpet and Crown had to go through that very churchyard— and that 
although the house was usually closed at ten, the argument in which 
they were engaged was not finished at eleven. They had still one little 
point to settle; a point, which they felt it to be their duty to settle before 
they parted, it being neither more nor less than "How the cotmtry 
could be saved from a sanguinaiy revolution?" Mr. Blinkimi contended 
that unless a law were passed to protect the British butcher, an imiversal 
slaughter would be inevitable. Mr. Bobber thought that a poll-tax might 
avert it. Mr. Pokey begged to say, and to have it imderstood, that it 
could be averted only by an equitable adjustment ; and while Mr. Snor- 
kins declared it to be his unbought opinion, that it was to be done by 
an alteration in the iron trade alone, Mr. Quocks maintained that it 
could be done only by an immediate and unconditional repeal of the 
corn-laws. Eventually, however, Mr. Obadiah Drant recapituated the 
various argmnents adduced, and having summed up with all his charac- 
teristic perspicuity, delivered his judgment to the effect that — Nothing 
could save this mighty nation from one chaotic mass of unextinguishable 
flames! 

The point in question having thus been decided to the entire satisfac- 
tion of all concerned, the party broke up ; and all, with the exception of 
Obadiah, who would have a glass at the bai', left the house, and pro- 
ceeded homewards through the churchyard. 

The churchyard 1 To the contemplative, how awfril is a churchyard 
at midnight, when a solemn stillness pervades the scene over which, for 
a time. Death reigns triumphant 1 Who, without inspiring feelings of 
awe, can, at such a time reflect, that beneath the surface of that solemn 
scene, hearts that have throbbed wdth love, sympathy, and joy, and those 
from which sprang only baseness and crime, together perish? — ^that the 
marrowless bones of the noble and the base, the virtuous and the ^dcious, 
the intellectual and the animal, the lofty and the lowly, the generous and 
the selfish, the philanthropist and the misanthrope, lie levelled: some 
fleshless, some crumbled into dust, some crumbling fast, and some cased 
in corruprion still; but all levelled, or distinguished only by the vanity 
of the living; while Death, upon the loftiest tomb, sits grinning at the 
distinction, conscious that they are all levelled, and that thus they will 
remain till the last trump shall sound, when his power will cease for 
ever? 

Perhaps no one. But to those who had just left the Crumpet and 
Crown this scene was not awful at all. These reflections then did not 
occur to them — ^they didn't reflect upon anything of the sort. They 
were all elated, thoughtless, careless, fearless: that is, they feared no- 
thing, seeing nothing to fear: they were joyous, merry, happy, generous, 
friendly, and affectionate. But when they had got half way across the 
churchyard. Pokey, who was somewhat in advance of the rest, started 
back, with a look of horror, and with frightful effect exclaimed, " What's 
that?" 



THS S0MKAMBULI8T. 27 

" Wliat's what?— what do yoii mean?'' demanded Snorkius. 

" Look there I" returned Pokey, with vehemence, pointmg to a tall, 
white figure, which appeared to be contemplating the tombs. 

And they did look there: and on the instant terror seized them. Two 
ran back to the Crumpet and Crown, and the rate at which they ran 
surpassed eyerything on record in the annals of numing; but the rest 
didn't run, because they couldn't. They stood, as if struck with pa- 
ralysis; they were as pale as any spectre could hope to be; and while 
their hearts ceased to perform their natiu-al functions, and their quiver- 
ing lips were livid with fear, their knees smote each other with a species 
of violence altogether unexampled. Well, what was to be done? There 
it was: a real, regular ghost I There was no mistake about it: there 
couldn't exist two opinions on the subject ; but what was to be done? 
Should they run? — ^they couldn't. Should they call out? — ^they couldn't. 
WeU, were they to stop there and watch till it vanished? They didn't 
at all like to do so, but what else could they do? Nothing. There they 
remained, and while they were there, in a state of speechless terror, 
Obadiah Drant, being a valiant man, on hearing the facts of the case stated 
by Bobber and Quocks, who had run back so bravely to tlie Crumpet and 
Crown, seized a carving-knife which lay near a huge roimd of beef, and 
while flourishing it boldly declared, with that vehemence for which he was 
distinguished, that as he cared no more for a ghost than he did for Bobby 
Peel, he'd go at once and "settle the swell!" which really was a very 
irreverent expression, and therefore extremely incon*ect. But, seeing 
such valour displayed, Legge, the landlord, who had never seen a ghost, 
but who had a great desire to see one, did offer to accompany Obadiali 
Drant, and, despite the remonstrances of Mrs. Legge, actually quitted 
the house with him, leaving Bobber and Quocks to fill Mrs. Legge's 
mind with all sorts of horrors, 

Legge, however, on reaching the churchyard, perceived that Obadiah 
somewhat relaxed, and, on mentioning this with all the delicacy of which 
he was capable, Obadiah pronounced this opinion: — That as spectres 
were " not sensible to feeling as to sight," it would not be at all a fair 
match. StiU-^with an assumption of valoiu-, which was, in reahty, a 
stranger to his heart — ^he went on : but he had no sooner reached the 
spot on which his friends stood, and beheld the white figure distinctly 
before him, than the carving-knife dropped, and he fell upon his knees, 
which would not then allow liim to stand. 

But L^ge, who assumed nothing, was comparatively calm. He saw 
the figure and believed it to be a spirit, and therefore his heart did not 
beat with its wonted regularity, still, compared with the rest, he was 
tranqtdl and firm. He even proposed to approach the " spirit," and to 
ascertain, if possible, why it had appeared; but not one would accom- 
pany him*— not one could accompany him — and, having at home a wife 
and five children, he didn't tliink it would be exactly prudent for him 
to go alone. 

"But come, comel" said he, "we have nothing to fear. We have 
murdered no one, robbed no one, injured no one — ^why should we fear? 
It will not harm us. It may have something to communicate«-H9ome 



28 SYLVESTER SOUND 

stKiret jxTliaps, which, until it has been revealed, will not allow it to rest. 
Let lis go." 

At this moment the figure — ^which, during the whole of the time, 
had been moving slowly from tomb to tomb— eame towards them ; but, 
as it advanced, they simultaneously receded, and continued to recede, 
looking constantly behind them, until they ixjached the gate, which 
they had no sooner passed, than, making themselves up for one grand 
effort, they darted towards the Crumpet and Crown with all the energy 
at their command. 

The figure, notwithstanding this, continued to advance. It seemed 
to be in no haste whatever! — ^it took its own time; and, having passed 
the gate, appeared to have mitde up its mind to look in at t^e Crumpet 
and Crown. But the moment they perceived this apparent inclination 
cm the part of the "spectre/' they closed the door, locked it, shot 
both the bolts, and then rushed to tlie window in a state of breathless 
anxiety. They were not, however, kept here in that state long: they 
had in fact scarcely reached the window, when they saw it pass 
slowly and solemnly by, without appearing even to notice the house— 
which was a comfort to them all: they breathed again, and were again 
courageous — indeed so courageous that when they felt perfectly sore 
that it was gone, they went to the door again, in order to watch it 
But it was not gone, although it was going, which was, in their 
judgment, the next best thing. Tliey, therefore, did watch it— bhv, 
they even followed it — ^at a most respectftil distance it is true— still 
they followed it, and continued to follow it, for nearly twenty yards! 
when it vanished — they couldn't tell how; but it vanished — and 
that, too, into Aimt Eleanor's cottage ! One thought he saw it walk 
through the brick wall; another conceived that it flew through the win- 
dow; a third felt convinced that it opened the door; a fourth imagined 
that it darted through the pannels ; but on the one grand point, they 
were all agreed — ^they all saw it enter the cottage. 

And dMt they pity Aunt Eleanor? Yes ! even from their souls they 
pitied her; but — ^they returned to the Crumpet and Crown. 

" Well!" said Mr. Pokey, " I never see such a job in my life! And 
didn't it smell?" 

" I smelt nothing," obsen-ed the landlord. 
" What, not brimstone?" 
"No: not a bit of it." 

" I can't say as I smelt brimstone," mterposed Mr. Bobber: " it seemed 
like the burning of charcoal, to me !" 

" Charcoal!" exclaimed Mr. Blinkimi; " it was just, for all the world, 
like burnt bones. You get the leg-bone of a bullock, and bum it, and 
sec if it won't smell — oh — offal ! and it stands to reason, that if the 
bones of a bullock smell, the bones of a man also will smell likewise." 
"But has a spirit bones?" demanded Mr. Bobber. 
" Why, if it hadn't, you fool, how could it hold together. A spirit 
is a skeleton — ^it must be a skeleton, because spirits have no flesh." 
" What do you call it a spirit for?" inquired Mi*. Quocks. 
" Why, what do you caU it ?" 




r / / / / 



THE SOMNAMBULIST. 29 

" A ghost, to be sure." 

" A ghost !" said Mr. Pokey. " I call it a wision I'' 

" Nonsense!" exclaimed Mr. Snorkins; " it's a apparition — ^that's what 
it is — ^and I'll bet you glasses round of it — come." 

Hereupon IVL*. Legge interposed an obsei^ation to the effect, that half 
the difference between ghosts, spirits, visions, and apparitions, wasn't 
much; but Obadiah, to whom nothing could be unknown, and who was 
consequently conversant with every species of spectre, contended loudly 
that the difference between them was as great as the difference between 
those familiar friends of his, Billy Pitt, Harry Brougham, Johnny 
EusseU, and Bobby Peel. He, moreover, learnedly enlarged upon tliis; 
and, having adduced inniunerable analogous cases, concluded by ob- 
serving, with the view of proving the distinction beyond all doubt, that 
the appearance of " Billy Pitt" would be a spirit — ^that of " Harry 
Brougham" a vision — that of " Bobby Peel" an apparition — and that of 
" Johnny Russell" a ghost. 

Meanwhile, the agitation of Mrs. Legge was excessive. Nothing could 
surpass it ! nothing ever equalled it ! Certain she was that she never 
should be able to get through the night. The state of her nerves was 
altogether frightful ! Twenty times during the discussion had she begged 
of them to leave, but in vain: they could not be prevailed upon to move 
— ^they were perfectly deaf to her entreaties, so long as she continued to 
supply their demands ; but when she at length announced her finn de- 
termination that they should'nt have another drop in her house that 
night, if she knew it, they made up their minds to go round by the road, 
shook Legge by the hand, and departed. 



CHAPTER V. 

THE MYSTERY. 



There is, perhaps, nothing connected with our nature more easily 
excited than suspicion. However much disposed we may be to confide 
in the honour and sincerity of those around us, we cannot extinguish 
that feeling of suspicion which appears to be inherent in our hearts. It 
may be latent — ^it may even for years be dormant ; but it is to be aroused 
by a single word, and when it is aroused it frequently developes itself 
with so much malignity, that prudence, pride, love, honour, justice, and 
reason fall before it. Some imagine that as there is so much deception 
beneath the surface of society, suspicion is absolutely essential to security 
— and it certainly is not safe to be too confiding — ^but it really does 
seem most ungenerous to suspect in a world in which there is such an 
immense amount of superficial honesty. There is, however, something 



30 BTLVESTEl^ SOUVD 

very pleasing in suspicion after all ; for it involves the hope that that 
which we suspect will be realized. If even it be prejudicial to ourselves, 
what a comfort there is in an opportiuiity of paying a compliment to our 
own acuteness! — ^>vhat self-satisfaction is derived from the exclamation, 
" I knew, of course, how it would be! — I suspected it all along! — and I 
have not been deceived!" We do not like to be deceived — nay, we can- 
not, in this respect, bear to be deceived ! 

It is questionable — aye, very questionable — ^whether any one is, or 
ever was, entirely free from the feeling of suspicion ; but then it is not 
to be said that tdl who possess that feeling are suspicious! No: Aunt 
Eleanor was not, in the common acceptation of the term, suspicious. 
She wished to believe that all around her were honest, just, virtuous, 
and pure : she had as much faith in their integrity as any one could have, 
but as she could not in any way account for that which had occurred, 
she felt convinced that there must be something wrong, and that 
conviction haimted her throughout the night. 

In the morning, however, being anxious, as usual, to act with the 
utmost discretion, she resolved on not recturing to the subject, bef(»e 
the servants, until she had consulted her reverend friend, and, in 
pursuance of this resolution, she wrote a note to that gentleman, 
requesting the favour of a call, but, before she had dispatched that 
note, he came, ostensibly mth the view of reminding her, that that was 
the very day on which the village would have a certain periodical 
visit. 

Now in this visit, much mystery was involved, and as it forms a sub- 
ject, which must of necessity, be reverted to anon, it will be perhaps as 
well to explain now, that a gentleman, named Howard, his daughter 
Henriette, and a lady, whose assumed name was Grevill«^ had for some 
years honoured the village with their presence, for one hour on the first 
of April, and the first of October, for a purpose which no one connected 
with that village had ever been able to learn. It may also be stated, 
that Henriette was an elegant gu'l, gentle, amiable, and accomplished. 
She had been educated with the utmost care, imder the surveillance 
of her father, whose every earthly hope seemed fixed upon her: she 
was the pride of his heart — his idol; most fondly — ^most dearly did 
he love her; but often, while gazing upon her in silence, woidd he 
burst into tears. Henriette constantly marvelled at this. To her it was 
indeed mysterious. She could not ascertain — ^nay, she could not even 
conceive, the cause. True, he was almost invariably sad : he was seldom, 
indeed, seen to smile; and when he did smile, his features in an instant 
assumed an expression of sadness again: but why he should be unable 
to look at her intently without shedding tears, she was utterly at a loss 
to imagine. That there was something heavy at his heart was abun- 
dantly clear; but she sought to know the cause of his sorrow in vain. 
They moreover lived in the most perfect seclusion. They saw no 
society. She never went out in the morning without him ; while he in- 
variably passed his evenings with her at home. She was all the world 
to him : he appeared to live only for her; and, as she had no companion, 



THE 80UNAMBULIST. 81 

gave him and her governess, whose lips on the subject had been effectu- 
ally sealed, she continued to live enveloped in a mystery, without even 
the prospect of its ever being solved. Tliat, however, which appeared 
to her to be most strange, was the fact of her going, twice a-year, with 
her father, to meet this lady, whom she never on any other occasion saw; 
and with whom she was permitted to remain but one hour. Tliis did 
appear to her to be strange, indeed. She had been instructed by her 
fa&er to address her as Mrs. Greville ; but he himself never saw her. 
Henriette invariably entered the room done, and the moment she entered, 
Mrs. Greville would eagerly receive her in her arms, and while indulg- 
ing in a passionate flood of tears, would kiss her, and bless her, and 
press her to her heart with the most intense affection. In person, Mrs. 
Greville was above the middle height : her features were regular and 
handsome, and, while her manners were extremely elegant, her figure 
was commanding; but she always appeared to be overwhelmed with 
grief, although the presence of Henrietta seemed to inspire her with the 
most ecstatic joy. Often would Henrietta enqtdre anxiously why she 
did not visit them — ^why they met there — ^why at those particular 
times, and so on ; but Mrs. Greville, while the tears were gushing forth, 
would only answer that she was forbidden to explain — that she was 
indeed happy, most happy, to see her — that she loved her— dearly, 
passionately loved her-^and that it was for her o^vn happiness that she 
knew no more. 

But even this was imknown in the village. It was not known even 
to the landlady of the inn! — ^which was "\nsely ordered — ^wisely, because, 
had it been known to her, of course her curiosity would have been 
seriously diminished, and without curiosity how coxild such ladies live 
and thrive? 

Perhaps, however, Aunt Eleanor took more interest in the matter 
than any other person in the village. She knew not exactly why she 
should feel so much interest in an affair of this nature, but she, never- 
theless did; and hence, on being reminded that that was the day on 
which the parties in question met, she thought less of the mystery of 
the preceding night. She did, however, eventually allude to it, and 
that too, in a most feeling strain, and the result was, that her reverend 
Mend shook his head, and advised her to wait patiently, and to watch 
with diligence, albeit, he knew no more what she was to watch for, than 
she knew what to suspect, or what design it was against which she ought 
to guard. 

In the mean time, the village was in a state of commotion. The 
apparition, of coui'se, had been variously described ; and the gossips had 
so ingeniously improved upon each description, that it soon became a 
monster — ^twelve feet high. In the height of a ghost, a few feet, more 
or less, is a matter of very slight importance ; but when, to its height 
they had added their conceptions of its breadth, depth, and general 
deportment, the picture was truly appalling. 

The gentlemen who had absolutely seen it, of course, met early at 
the Crumpet and Crown. There was but one absent, and that was Mr. 



82 8TLYESTEB SOUND 

Pokey, before the door of whose residence, chaff had been laid. It was 
the custom at that period, and in tliat part of the country, to strew chaff 
before the door of every gentleman who physically corrected his wife — 
chaff being held to be indicative of a threshing — ^but, in this particular 
instance, it was strewn in consequence of the lady having corrected her 
husband, Mrs. Pokey being extremely indignant at the fact of Mr. 
Pokey having kept out so horribly late. The story of the ghost failed 
to tranc^uillisc her spirit. She wouldn't beUeve it! — ^which was very 
wrong, because Pokey declared that it was true, upon his honour — she 
knew better! — she wouldn't have it! — Whence she thrashed him, and 
hence she would not in the morning suffer him to stir from his board, 
for Mr. Pokey was a tailor of great celebrity in the village, and, withal, 
a perfect master of his needle. 

But the absence of Mr. Pokey, although under the circumstances 
deeplv regretted, was not allowed to operate as a check upon the vivid 
imagmation of his friends. They entered into the matter with in- 
finite spirit, and made the most that could be made of every important 
point. 

But the cause of this mysterious appearance ! — ^not one could divine the 
cause. Tliat a murder had been committed by some one, was, by the 
majority, held to be clear; but who was the murderer — ^who was the 
most likely man in the village to conmiit such a crime? Who looked 
most like a murderer? They really couldn't say. They remembered 
that about five-and-twenty years before, a gentleman, who resided oppo- 
site, mysteriously disappeared with the amount of a whole quarter's poor's- 
rate. He might have been murdered. Who could tell? It was possible! 
It was moreover held to be possible by all, save one, and that one was 
Obadiah Drant, who expressed his conviction that that which they had 
seen, was the spirit of a miser, who had then been dead about fifteen years, 
and in whose house only sixty guineas had been found, when every one 
supposed him to be worth as many thousands. He had not the slightest 
doubt of its being the spirit of that miser, which couldn't rest, because 
it didn't like the idea of leaving so much money undiscovered behind it. 
But this opinion was not subscribed to by the rest. Indeed there was 
only one point upon which aU were agreed, and that point was, that the 
spirit might, perchance, reappear that night. This every man present 
believed to be highly probable, and the consequence was, that they 
unanimously resolved to re-assemble at night with the view of watching 
its manoeuvres. 



THE 80UXA3IBULI6T. 3«1 



CHAPTER VI. 



THE GHOST HUNT. 



In a village like Cotherstone, of which the inhabitants were trades- 
men with plenty of time on their hands, Lil)onrers trained to thonghtless 
toil, and persons who, having retirtd from trade, were anxiously wait- 
ing to die, such an occurrence as tliat of the apix*arance of a ghost, 
could not fail to create a sensation. Nor did it: Nor was the sensation 
thus created either slight or ephemeral : it was dcHip — ^\'ery deeji — ^and, 
therefore, lasting. There was not one in the village upon whom the 
ghost had not made a powerful impression. Even the exemplary wife 
of Mr. Pokey — ^who, during the whole of the morning, had Ixh'u engaged 
upon a series of nice calculations, of which the result was that, as Pokiy, 
since his marriage, had taken nearly five thousand ounces of snuff, and 
upwards of twenty-five thousand quarts of beer, (beer enough to deluge 
the village, and snuff sufficient to fill up his grave,) they woidd, had he 
saved the money thus squandered, have had more than five himdred 
pounds then to play with— even she, repudiating incredulity, became so 
excessively interested in the spirit, that she actually allowwl Mr. Pokey 
in the evening to go up again to the Crumpet and Crown. 

And, oh 1 what a theatre of excitement it was! Not only the party of 
the previous evening, but almost every man in the village was present ; 
but, although Mr. Pokey came late, and was, mofeover, hailed on his 
arrival with significance, they, being unwilling to wound his private 
feelings, did not then allude to the chaff. 

Obadiah, of course, was there, and he was, as usual, very dictatorial 
and deep ; but he had one grand object to achieve : he had to justify 
his conduct on the preceding night. He admitted that that conduct 
was not indicative of bravery : he freely admitted that it was not exactly 
characterised by that peculiar boldness for which he was ardently 
anxious to become distinguished: "But," said he, >nth much point, 
" you must view this affair in all its fructifying ramifications. Place 
before me anything tangible — anything with which I can grapple, my 
boys — ^and then see how V\\ act!" 

" But you didn't even speak to it!" said Legge. 

" Speak to it!" returned Obadiah. " Why, what's the good of speak- 
ing to a spiiit? — ^what's the good of arguing with a ghost? — what prin- 
ciple, either moral, religious, social, political, or municipal, can you 
dnve into the head of an apparition? Place brains before me — give 
me fructifying inteUigence — ^give me Harry Brougham, or even Bobby 
Peel, my boys — and then you'd see how I'd go in ; but the idea of 
speaking to a spectre! — ^pooh! — what's the good?" 

l> 



34 SYLVESTER SOUND 

liy this ingeuioiis ^ixvies of rati(K*iiiation — tliiH word is employed 
here in conipUmeut to liim, for ratiocination and fructification were the 
two stock weapons, which he, on all occasions, used to defeat his opponents, 
and without which he couldn't well argue a pohit — ^lie endeavoured to 
justify himself. But lie didn't succeed. His friends attributed his 
silence in the chiu'chyard to fear — they "woidd not hear of its being 
a scribal )le to anything else! — and when he found that he could not then 
shake this conviction, he, in order to subdue them for the time being, 
proniisinl to show them that night what he would say, and how he 
would act in the event of the spiiit's re-appeiu*ance. 

This grand point having been thus fai- settled, he reverted to politics, 
in which he knew^, of coiUTse, that he was perlectly at home, and in pos- 
session of the abiUty to beat them hollow. 

Of aU highly-influential men, there is not one more capable of com- 
manding the attention of those who form the ciixile of which he is the 
centre, than a village politician. Nor woidd it be correct if there were, 
for wdiat a patriot he is! — ^>vhat a pui'e philanthropist! — ^nay, what a 
deeply indignant man! IIow profoimd is his political wisdom! — and 
how boldly he denounces the conduct of the party to whom he is, on 
principle, opposed! What rogues — ^what reckless, rampant rogues — 
does he prove them to be! To his knowledge, what intrigues are they 
connected with — ^what flagi'ant follies are they guilty of — ^what dead 
robberies do they commit ! In his view, with what tenacity do they 
stick to the property of the people! — ^how they batten on corruption! — 
how they live on piure phmder! — how richly they deserve to be hanged! 
With Avhat fiery indignation does he declare them to be ^vretches : how 
rotten, how venal, how utterly contemptible does he labour to make 
them all appear, when, to get a coat to make, or a boot to mend, he 
Avoidd take off his hat to the fii'st he met. Precisely such a patriot was 
Obadiah Drant. But, although he would denounce the aristocracy at 
night, and bow to them with all liumility in the morning, it merely 
proved the force of example — ^he would boldly philippicise people of 
property, and bend low to get the smallest share ; but as men envy only 
the possessor of that which they have not, this Avas merely the effect of 
education. He would, moreover, loudly declaim against rank, state, 
and splendom*, and yet 

*'lick absurd pomp, 
And crook the pregnant hinges of the knee. 
That thrift might follow fawning ;" 

but that Avas a natural matter of business. He was a patriot, notwith- 
standing; a tyrant, and a slave; and was highly respected by those 
whom he met at the sign of the Ciamipet and Crown. 

But, on this particular night, he Avas singularly eloquent. He, in- 
deed, sui-passed himself. He explained what the ministers ought to 
have done, and what he woidd have done had he been at the helm : he 
showed them how easily and how equitably he woidd have swept off the 
National Debt — ^how he woidd have settled the CuiTcncy question — ^how 
confidence and credit had proved the nation's cur? e — ^how France should 



TUE SOMXAMBULIST. 35 

have been made directly tributary to England — ^liow Kiissian ambition 
should have been levelled with the dust — ^how we should have counte- 
nanced American repudiation — and how a British colony should have 
been made of the Celestial Empire at once. 

And thus he amused and amazed them all, until the horn* had anived 
at which the spirit was expected to re-apixiur; when, siunmoning all the 
courage they had, they repaired to the quiet chiu-chyard. 

The night was clear. The moon was bright, and seemed to smile at 
the scene below; and while the stars merrily winked at each other, as if 
they enjoyed it too, the small white clouds in a playfid spirit assumed 
shapes b^iring the semblance of ghosts, and flew belbre the moon in the 
perfect conviction that she would at once cast their shadows to earth. 
But in this they were mistaken. The moon would do nothing at all of 
the sort. The hght was not her own; it was but borrowed: and, there- 
fore, she didn't feel justified in lending it for any such purpose to these 
little scamps. 

Accordingly, no shadow appeared ; and the party became quite bold. 
They even went right round the church ! which was daring. They kept 
all together, it is true — ^not one of them would move without the rest — 
stiU they went completely round, and seemed to dare that or any othet 
spectre to appear! — ^nay, on finding that nothing of the kind became 
visible, some began to treat the affau* with contempt, and felt inclined 
to laugh, when Pokey, who had kept a remarkably sharp look out, 
exclaimed— 

" There! — ^there you are! — ^that's it! — ^there it is!" 

And there it was! — b. narrow tomb, surmoimted by an urn about the 
size of a very thick head. 

Being, however, utterly unconscious of this, and having their minds 
on the instant wrought up to a state fit to receive any frightful impres- 
sion, they looked with terror at the object before them, and felt as if 
their time was come. 

But then it didn't move! — this they held to be extraordinary: nor did 
it seem as if it intended to move! — which they thought more extraordi- 
nary still. That it was a ghost, no doubt existed; but the fact of its 
being a fixture, beat them. 

At length Click, the farrier, who was not a coward, proposed that 
they should approach it en masse, and this proposition Avas seconded 
by Legge; but as it was almost mianimously negatived. Click and 
Legge made up their minds to go together, and went, leaving their 
valiant friends trembling beliind them. Long, hoAvever, before they had 
reached the object in vieAV, they saw distinctly what it was ; and Legge, 
on the impulse of the moment, was about to call out to them, but Click 
checked him promptly. 

" Hold your tongue, Legge!" said he. " Now we'll have a game." 

And he led him to the tomb and groaned deeply, and then led hun 
back to his friends, who felt ill ! 

" Obadiah Drant," said Click, on his return, in the most solemn tone 
he coiUd assume, " it wishes to speak with Obadiah Drant." 

" With me?" cried Obadiah. " You don't mean with me?' 

D 3 



36 &YLVf>tKH souxn 

•• Willi y»>u!" ivtuiiKHl Click, in an awful jri'owl. 
"Xo, no, no, no, I shau't jfo! not a hit of* it I NVIiat lUvs it want? I 
sliaii't ".^ol" 

*• You MLftT," jn'owIiHl Click, who instantly liK'kcU his arms iu those 
olM)hadiali, and oarritHl him, iloiS-a-iIoi<, towaixls the tomb. 

But on the way, oh! liow sharp wci"e tlie strictly private feelings of 
this great man! He lelt his heait suik deejxjr and dtK»per still at every 
step, and as the cold sweat l>edewe<l his highly-intellectual brow, he was 
half dead with " fructifying" fnght. He did not even try to evade the 
iron grasp of Click, for Xaturii liad taught him, in his early youth, the 
inutility of attempting that which he knew to be imj^ssible: he rode on, 
a martyr to this eternal j>rinciple, and riding as he did — ^with his back to- 
wanls the horri]>le object he was approaching — ^lie gave himself up for lost. 
" Behold!" exclaimed Click, on reiiching the spot. " Behold!" and 
having iittereil this awful exclamation, he tiuiied sharply round, and 
presented the face of his teri*or-stricken load to the tomb. 

Obadiah — who felt very faint — looked at the urn with an expression 
of despair, but, his eyes Ix'iug veiled with a fihn of honx)r, he couldn*t 
at first see what it was. Gradually, however, that film disappt^aivd, 
and as it vanished, the changes which his countenance underwent, were 
of the most extraordinary character iKirhaps ever beheld; but, even 
when he had become comi)letely conscious of what it was — ^when he 
had touched the urn, and foimd that it was stone, and therefore knew 
that it was no ghost — although he felt a little better, his features ex- 
pressed hifelicity still. 

" Mr. Click, sir," said he, between a sigh and a moan, " I'll never 
forgive you; I'll never forgive you." 

Click, as he released him, laugheil loudly, and continued to laugh; and 
as Legge had, in the interim, explained all to his friends, they approached 
the sjwt, and laughed loudly too. They were highly amused: they 
enjoyed it much: they were all, indeed, in most excellent spirits: but 
Obadiali was indignantly dumb. He viewed the contortions of Mr. 
Click and his disciples with disgust. As they pealed forth theh* merri- 
ment, and held their sides, and irrcvertnitly trampled upon the graves 
around to suMue the pain which tlu^ laughter created, he scowded at 
them all with refined disdain, and, contemning their pi'actices, left them. 
" This is yoiu- ghost, then, is it?" ciied Click, when the laughter had 
somewhat subsided. '* This is your fiery-eyed phantom after all, thenV" 
" No," rephed Legge, '' we have been deceived by this, it is true; but 
this is not that which we saw last night. That was a spirit — a real 
spu'it, if ever a spirit appeared upon earth." 

" I don't Ixilievc it," retorted the incredulous Click ; " nothing can make 
me believe it." 

" But 1 saw it, I tell you! I saw it walk — I'm not exactly blind! I 
saw it pass my house, and go straight to the cottage." 

" Let's go to the cottage now, then," interiK)sed Pokey. " As it isn t 
here, I dare say we shall see it there. Let's go to the cottage." 

" Aye — ^let's go!" exclauned several of his friends, " let's all go to- 
gether." 



^^: 



—4.. :- »_-*:_ ...* .<■ hr. •■ « . . 



.... -^ 




./,.' «'/;'/x// ^// ''/'^ jr/^yr 



THE SOMXAMliULlSt. 37 

"You may go, it* you like,'' Siiid Click, "Imt you clout catch mc 
gliost-liuutiiig again. Til have no more of it. / shall go in and t-mukc 
u pipes and so I tell you." 

"Well go — ^Avhat's the odds?'' cried Pokey, who had Ix'conie extremely 
valiant! " TU be bound to say ive shalf find om- way without you. 
Come along, my Britons. Hei*e we goes. Let them as is afeared stop 
behind, that's all." 

They then boldly left the churchyard, IikI on by the courageous 
Pokey, and as they passed the Cnunpet and C'ro^vn, Click and Legge 
tamed in, but the rest went on to th(^ cottage*. 

Here all was still. Not a sound was heanl. The lights were out 
and the blinds were do^^-n. But ns they stood l)efore the gate they 
fancied diey saw the curtains move. 

" It's in there, now," said Pok»*y to Quocks ; " d(»iH'nd upon it, it'« 
in there, now." 

"I ccrt'ney sec something," said Quockij. And the fnends around him 
saw something; but what that something was, they wouldn't undertake 
to say, although, at any other time, they would have swoni — and safely 
too-^hat it was really a white curtain, and nothing else. But then, 
fancy converted that curtain into all sorts of shapes, and jis ghosts aiv. 
white by prescription, it so far i*esembled a ghost, while the diili- 
coltj eacperienccd in conceiving a head, was, under the circumstance^!, 
smal]. 

"Do you see it?" "Yes: what?" " There it is, vou fix)!!" "Ohl" 
"Tlicre's the head." "That the head?" "To Ik^'suiv." "Where's 
the toil?" "What tail?" "Whatf^/Z/T "OhT "Ah!" "Xo doubt." 

This is a very fair epitome of the sentiments (expressed, when Aunt 
Eleanor, hearing a most extraoixlinarj' buzz about the pn'uiises, slippeil 
out of bed with the view of ascertaining whence it proceeded; but the 
moment she drew the white curtain aside, and appt»ared in her night- 
dress before them, the effect was electric! Her appearance alone in- 
spired them with terror! But when she prf»ceed(^ to opn the window, 
for the purpose of asking them what it all meant, even as affnghted 
sheep foUow their leader, so did they follow the valiant Pokey, who did 
instantaneously take to his heels. 

In vain she called upon them to stop. They didn't like to do it! 
" What do you want my good people?" rfie cried. " What on earth do 
you all want?" 

They heard her; but, conceiving the voice to be that of some fiend, 
they went right on : nor did they stop until they anived at the Cnimix-'t 
and Cro^vn. 

" Have you seen it?" cried Legge, as they rushed in wildly. 

"Yes!'' replied Pokey, panting for breath. "At the cottage! — it's 
there!" 

" I don't believe a word of it," said Click; "it's all stuff." 

"Well, go and look yoiu-self," cried Pokey, " that's all. Tluie it is 
at the window!'' 

" Is it there now?" 

" Jf it isn't, ril foifeit a couple of galluut>." 



38 SYLVKbTiiK SOUND 

" Good!'' sivid Click. " Legge and I will go at once. You had btitter 
come with us." 

"I!"' exclaimed Pokey. 

" To be satisfied, of com^sc!'' 

" Well, we don't want to go very near?" 

" Oh no ; just come with us." And Pokey did go with them ; but 
long Ixjfore they had reached the gate, he stopped, and cried, pointing to 
the ^vindow — "There — there! There it is 1 Don't you see it?" 

They looked, and certainly did see something: they saw something 
move; they, moreover, heard a voice; and the voice did proceed from 
that window. 

" Let us go a little nearer," said Click, who at that moment didn't 
feel exactly the thing; liis heart didn't beat with its accustomed re- 
gularity : it tlumiped and stopped, and blundered about, as if it didn't 
care whether it worked or not; but as he wasn't inspired with absolute 
fear, they went a little nearer, and as they approached, Aunt Eleanor, 
who knew Legge well by his arms, which he at all times swung in a 
most extraordinary fashion, cried out — " Is that you, Mr. Legge?" 

" Yes, ma'am," replied Legge, promptly, for he knew the voice in an 
instant. " Is there anything amiss, ma'am?" 

" What, in the name of goodness, did those persons want here just 
now?" 

" They thought they saw a ghost, ma'am." 

" Ridiculous I I really have no patience with such folly." 

" I know," obsciTed Pokey, " that something appeared, and at that 
veiy window, too.'* 

" 'Twas I, you simple man," said Aunt Eleanor. " You saw me ap- 
pear at the window. I'm ashamed of you. Tell them from me, Mr. 
Legge, that if they come here again, I'll have them all taken up : they 
shall all be pimished: I will not submit to be thus annoyed. Good 
night." 

She then retired from the window, and they, being quite satisfied, re- 
tiuTied to their friends ; the whole of whom felt exceedingly mortified on 
learning, not only that they had been thus deceived, but that they had 
been the cause of annoyance to a lady, who had been so kind to the poor 
aroimd, and to whom the whole village had reason to be grateful. 

They, notwithstanding, had Pokey's two gallons in: and Click, in 
order to heal the deep wounds he had inflicted upon the feelings of Oba- 
diah, ordered two gallons more, but Obadiali again and again declared 
he'd never forgive him : nor when the party, at midnight, broke up, had 
a reconciliation between those two gentlemen been efiected. 



TH£ S0MKA3IBULIST. 39 



CHAPTER Vn. 

THE PICKLED SMALLS. 



Upon those who live in the midst of excitement, who not only feel the 
world's biiffets themselves, but see the world buffeting all around them — 
whose lives ax^ one perpetual struggle — whose career is a series of ui)s 
and downs — !-who are constantly compelled to be on the qui vice — ^^vho, 
jfirom morning till night, and from year to year, are engaged in over- 
coming those baiTiers by which their progress in hfe is impeded — who, 
either to amass wealth, or to gain a mere subsistence, have their minds 
continually on the stretch — ^who are surromided by difficulties springing, 
not only j&*om honourable competition, but from tiickery, malignity, and 
envy — ^who are thwarted at every step— who are opposed at every pomt, 
and have to dodge through the world, which is to them one huge laby- 
rinth, out of which they scarcely know how^ to get with honour — 
troubles of an imimportant caste make but little impression, for they really 
have not time to think much about them ; but they, whose lives are 
passed in an almost perpetual calm — ^^vho Hve but to live — who have a 
competence which secures to them comfort — ^who have nothing but tran- 
quillity aroimd them — ^nothing to prepare for in this world but the next 
—whose course is clear, whose career is smooth — who experience neither 
Tips nor doTViis — ^who Hve on, and on, in the spirit of peace, hoping for 
peace hereafter — ^who know but Uttle of life, or its vicissitudes — who 
hare nothing to oppose their progress — ^no difficulties to surmount, no 
harriers to break down, no competition to encoimter, no struggling, no 
straining, no manoeuvring — ^they magnify every cause of vexation by 
dwelling upon it, brooding over it, and making it the genu of a thou- 
sand conceptions, as if anxious to ascertain what monstrous fniit it can 
thus be imagined to bear. 

The impression, however, is not intended to be conveyed that the 
difficidties which beset Aunt Eleanor at this period were small : the object 
proposed, is merely to show that, however great they might be, they 
were perfectly sure to be magnified ; seeing that she had never had but one 
important trouble, and that, with this exception — the nature of which 
will be hereafter explained — ^her whole life had been characterised by an 
almost uninterrupted flow of tranquilHty. But, even if this had not l3een 
shown, it woidd scarcely have been deemed, under the circumstances, ex- 
traordinary, that these occurrences — for which she could not in any way 
account — should have seriously interfered with her spirit's peace. 

But these annoyances were not all she had been doomed to endure. 
In the morning when Mary went to assist her to dress, she went, fraught 
with another mysterious cause of vexation. 



40 Sln-VE^tEK SOtKO 

*' Oh, niii'am!" slie excluinuii " Thcix^'s been sich goings on? Oli! 
I wver did bcc, nia^am! T1k» things is all turned topsy-turvy. The 
jnctnrs, chefrs, everything. Oh! it is honid." 

** AVhat is it you mean, Marj '/" 

" Oh! niaani! only jist come down stau*?, ma*am; that*, all." 

" But what do you mean?" 

** There's l^ecn thieves in the house, ma'am! But do come and see. 
Jist slip on your things, ma'am, juid only jist look at the horrid upset." 

Aunt Eleanor did slip on her things, and on reaching the door of her 
favourite parlour, Ix'held a scene of unexampled confusion. Ererj'thing 
had l)een displaced. The tables had Iwen turned upside down, and the 
chairs piled ingeniously upon them : the pictures had been taken from 
the waJls, and placed round the room upon the carpet: tlie vases, the 
lambs, dogs, lions, and tigers, hjKl ]xxm removed from the mantelpiece 
to the couch: the china and glass had been taken from^ the sideboard, 
and aiTanged fantastically uixhi the piano, while, in order to compro- 
mise the matter with the sideboard, the hearth-rug, coal-scuttle, fire- 
irons, and fender, had been in due form placed upon it ; but nothing had 
been broken— nothing even injured! 

» Aunt Eleanor gazed for a few momenta upon this most extraordinary 
state of things in silence; but, ha^ang at length observed cahnly thai it 
demanded minute investigation, she locked the door, and taking the h^ 
with her, returned to her chamber to dress. ■• ; 

Here she trampiilly ttunod the thing over in her mind; and, having 
viewed it in connexion with the ghost-hunting party, she resolved on 
sending fox her reverend friend, >\'ith the view of placing the matter 
before him. .•'■•■ 

In pi^suance of this resolution, she, on descending to the breakfast- 
room, opened her desk and proceeded to write a note to the revereiid 
gcmtloman ; but she had scarcely commenced it, when Mary appeared: 
and, having infonucd her that neither bread, butter, eggs, noriheim, 
coufd be found, inquired not only what was to bec<mie of them, bttt what 
was to be done? 

" C-an you not find enough for breakfast?* 

" Lot blc8S=}^u, ma'am, they ha:\'en't Icfl a mite!" 

Aunt Eleanor pressed her lips closely together, and finished the note; 
and, while folding it, said 

" Light the taper, Mary; and then, desire Judkins to come here." 

** Judkins, ma am, can't get up yet," replied Mary. 

** Why not? Is he ill?" 

• ** Noy ma'am, he isn't «V/." 

" Why, then, can he not get up?" 

" Because ma'am, they've taken ayvny all his things." 

^^ Good gracious ! What next shall I hear? Well, put on your lx)nnet, 
and take this note, and bring in with you what we require for breakfast." 

The note being' sealed, Maiy lef> the room, and Sylvester soon af\er 
entered; and when his aunt, as usual, had kissed him, and expressed 
lier fond hoiw that he was well, she proceeded to explain to him 
"Vvhat had occuned ; and thereby to fill him ^dth utter amazement. 




OiaujViwyv 



ujH^jvvdUu^ 



, ///" r^JA^r/r/ . ^//vry///-^- . 



Tl!£ i^aiNAHBrust. 41 

" My dear aiint," said he, " what can it all mean?'* 
"Heaven only knows! I cannot cv'cn conjecture. But just conic 
with me, dear, and look at the things. Tliere," she added, on opening 
the parlour-door, " did you ever see a room in such a state of confu- 
sion?" 

Sylvester looked, and really felt, quite astonished. 

" You see," she continued; " there's not a single thing in its place." 

**But what cotilil have been their object?" said Sylvester. "The 
things are disarranged, it is true; but they appear to have distiu-bcd 
them with great consideration. I cannot conceive what their motive 
tanMhave been. 

" Nor can I ! unless, indeed, it were merely to annoy me.'' 

"I should say that had that been their object, they woidd never have 
removed them ^vith so much care. The things have not lK.*en thrown 
togeth^, you perceive : it has been Ji work of time. Look at this china 
and glass; there is some little taste, you iwrccive, displayeil in tlie ar- 
rangement.'* 

"I do not admire the taste displayed, but they certainly have l>een 
most carefully handled. But that, my dear, which aimoys me more 
than all, is the fact of my being imable to imagine, not only who did it, 
but how it was done. I shoidd say myself, that thieves have not bei'u in 
the liouse. I miss nothing here. The only things wliich have disajv 
peared, with the exception of the bread, butter, Q^s, and ham, are the 
clothes of poor Judkins.*' 

" Are they gone? Well — that is strange." 

" And, especially as there are many things much more portable and 
infinitely more valuable here: that timepiece, for instance, is worth 
thirty pounds. However, not a tiling shall be touched until Mr. Rouse 
comes, ril have the whole matter investigated fully." 

She then returned to the breakfast-room, and Sylvester went up to 
Judkins, whom he foimd still in bed, for he hadn't a thing to put on. 

"Why, how is this, Judkins?" said Sylvester, as he entered; "I hear 
that you have lost all your clothes." 

"Every rag: every individual rag," replied Judkins; "I haven't a 
mite of anything to put on. I shouldn't have cared if they'd only just 
lefk me a pair of breeches ; but blarm 'em, to take away the lot was 
ondecent." 

" Didn't you hear them at all?" 

" I only -wish for their sakes I had; I'd ha' cooked the goose of one 
or two of 'em, I"ll warrant. It's worse than highway robbeiy, ten times 
over. I'd ha' forgiven 'em if they'd stopped me on the road, but to 
crawl in and steal a man's clothes clandestinely when he's asleep, is the 
warmintest proceeding I ever heered tell on." 

" Well, how do you mean to manage? Shall I nm to the tailor for 
you?" 

"No, I thank you, sir; Mary's just gone to the Parson's gardener, to 
ask him to lend me a pair of ])reeehes and a waistcoat: but I don't 
know whetlier he mil or not, I'm sinr." 

"My trousers, I suppose, 'vnll not fit you?'* 



42 STLVESTEU 80UXO 

"Lor* l>lcss you — I should split 'em all to ribbons; I cguldii't get 
my anus in. Blister em: all I wonder at is, they didn't take off my 
sliii-t. They have got my stockings. Shouldn't I like to catch 'em. If 
ever I do come across 'em, I ^vish 'em success." 

Mary now came to the door with a bundle, for Jomis — ^having heard 
tlie whole matter explained — ^liad opened his heart, and sent the clothes; 
and when Sylvester had handed them over to Judkins, he left him to 
njoin lais aunt. 

While at breakfast they, of com*se, spoke of nothing, thought of 
nothing, but the confusion so mysteriously created; but the more they 
endeavouied to guess the cause, the more deeply involved they became. 
They had scarcely, however, finished their repast, when the reverend 
gentleman amved, and when, with a look which denoted concern, he 
had gi-eeted them with all his characteristic cordiality, Aunt Eleanor 
elo(|uently laid the case l)cfore him— connecting it ingeniously with the 
ghost-liuntinff party who appeared before her cottage the preceding 
night — and then asked him what he thought of the matter as it stood, 
and what course he imagined she ought to pursue. 

Now the Ileverend Mr. Rouse was a man of the world — ^that is to say, 
a man of the world in which he lived ; a man possessing a most profound 
knowledge of the sphere in which he moved — ^he was a man of obser- 
vation, as well as a man of reflection; and wliilc lus perceptive faciUtics 
were strong, he was conversant with, although luiable to discover the 
etymology of, certain idioms which were constantly used by those around 
him. He knew, for example, what was meant by " a spree :" he more- 
over knew perfectly the meaning of " a lark :" he knew not whence they 
were derived, it is tnie — albeit he strongly inclined to the belief that 
they had one and the same Greek root : but bemg thus cognizant of 
their modem definition, he, after a pause, dming which he reflected 
deeply, said, with all the solenmity which the nature and importance of 
the words demanded, " Will you do me the favoui* to send for Legge?" 

" Certainly, my dear su'," replied Aunt Eleanor, who tm-ned and rang 
the boll on the instant. " Mary," she added, when the servant appeared, 
" as Judkins is busy, run and ask Mr. Legge to step over." 

" Tell him I desire that he will conic immediately," added the Pastor, 
with all that humility ])y which the order to which he belonged was at 
that particular period distinguished; and when ]\Iary had lefV, he in 
silence proceeded to rehearse that highly important part which it was 
his intention to pei*form. 

Legge, who was a man of business, and who, by virtue of attending 
to that business, was doing very well at the Crumpet and Crown, received 
Mary with liis customary custom-winning smile; but when she had 
delivered not only her mistress's message, but that which the reverend 
gentleman had sent, his features assumcid an expression of thought, and 
he said, as he passed his hand over his chin, " I wonder now what's in 
the wind." 

" You'll hear all about it," retm-ned Mary, promptly f " but do make 
haste, for they're anxious, I know." 

Mrs. Legge then spoke to Mary, and asked her how she found he?rself, 



THE 80HKAMUUL18T. 43 

and pressed her to have a glass of wine, and got her into the bar, and 
then made her have one ; and during Legge's progress to tlie cottage, 
•got out of her all she knew and more. 

The reverend gentleman ha-vdng decided upon a coiu^e, of wliich the 
pm*suit he thought would have a somewhat stunning effect, assumed a 
position of great imiwrtance as Legge entered the room, and addressd 
him in tones indicative of that authority mth which he felt doubly 
invested. 

" Mr. Legge," said he, with an expression of severity, " I am sony, 
Mr. Legge, that I have so much cause to complam of yom* kwping a 
disorderly house." 

" A disorderly house, sir?" cried Legge. 

" Yes, sir," retorted the reverend gentleman ; " a disorderly house— 
for disorderly eveiy house must be, if it be not conducted with propriety 
and decorum." 

"I beg pardon, sir: but really, I never heard before that I kept a 
disorderly house." 

" I say, sir, that it is a disorderly house, and I warn you that, as a 
disorderly house, it shall be indicted, if the scenes — ^the disgraceful scenes 
which are to be ^vitnessed there — be no( discontinued." 

" Wliat scenes? Wliat disgraceful scenes?" demanded Legge, who 
conscious of the propriety of his own conduct, and the consequent fair 
reputation of his house, began to feel indignant. " What scenes are to 
be witnessed there?" 

" Scenes, sir, of riot and debauchery ; scenes — " 

« I deny it." 

" Silence, sir; how dare you interrupt me?" 

" Dare! I'm a plain, blunt man, sii', and Avill not be silent when I hear 
myself falsely denounced. I am not a clerg^onan: I do not preach 
hmnility and practise tyranny : 1 am the mere keeper of a public-house ; 
I was not always in that position, but even as I am, I defy the world to 
prove that my conduct has not been straiglitfonvard and just. I am 
also the father of a fomily, and my children, you knoic, I have endea- 
voured to rear in the principles of virtue, morality, and religion. You 
know this: you know that I would neither set them a bad example 
myself, nor suffer a bad example to be set them by others: and, am I 
then, by you, sii', to be told, not only that I keep a disreputable house, 
but—" 

" I did not say a disreputable house." 

" You said a disorderly house." 

"I did: but not in your sense, disorderly. All I meant to say, 
was, that occasionally scenes of disorder occiui-ed." 

" Why, of course they do. Where is tliere a house of that description 
in which scenes of disorder do not occm- occasionally? But is it, there- 
fore, to be called a disorderly house? — ^a house to be indicted?" 

" You keep bad hours, sir; you cannot deny that!" 

" Occasionally we are compelled to be- rather late, but in general we 
close between ten and eleven." 

'* The house, sir, was not closed at twelve last night." 



44 *tI.V1ifetElt «OU!^ll 

" I am invare of it; l>iit tliat was undcp extraordinary cifciimstances." 

** It is to that point ^i» wonid come/' intei^posed Annt Eleanor, who, 
altliongli slie had been siUnit, didn't at all like her reverend friend's mode 
of proctHiding. " We wish to 8p<»ak of that solelr, Mr. Legge. You had 
a party last night, and that party, oi* a iniml-jer- of those persons who 
composed that party, appeaixil bc*fore the gate of my cottage at midnight. 
We vfishj Ml'. Legge, to know the motives of those persons: that is the 
point at which we are anxious to arrive.'' 

" Exactly," added the reverend gentleman ; " that is the point. Kow, 
sir, what were their motives?'' 

" Iknow but of one," i-cjilied l^e^go* 

" Aye, that is the ghost story : that we have heard. But d6 yoit not 
know that their principal object, sir, was to aunoy this lady?" 

"No, sir; on the contrary, I know tliat it was not. There is not a 
man amongst them, sir, by whom she is not respected. She is too kind 
—too good, sir, to be annoyed wantonly by them." 

" Then, do you mean to say, Mr. Legge, that you don't know that 
some of those persons burglariously entered this cottage last night?^' • 

*< Entered this cottage?" 

"Aye, sir! Tliat is the question. Do you, or do you not, khbit 
that fact?" 

" Most certainly I do not. Nor do I believe it to be a fact. Why, 
sir, there isn't one of them, who— leaving inclination out of the question 
entirely — ^would, imder the circumstances, have dared, sir, to enter'the 
cottage!" 

" Very well. You are entitled to the ftill Ix^nefit of tliis opinion; brtt 
I'll now just trouble you to look at the state of this room." 

Tlie reverend gentleman then rose, and, accoinpanied by Sylvostet and 
his aunt, proceeded to the parlour, duly followed by Legge, who, as he 
entered, looked roimd the room utterly astonished. 

*' You ha^'o, indeed, been annoyed, ma'am," at length he obsei-t-ed, 
" and I'm very sorry for it ; but I'm sure — quite sure, that this ^vas not 
done by either of those men." 

'" These tliings,"^aid the reverend gentleman, "could not have been 
removeji ■ witho^it hands.^ 

*♦ Nor eould'they ha^^e been removed in haste," rejoined Legge. " Were 
theddorsbrbkenop^il, ma'am?" 

"N'oi all seertol- «^iu*c in the morning! How ever they got in, I 
cart't imagi*i<^." 

" Do you think, ma'am, it's likely that any one got in?" 
^ 1 ^< What eh^ am 'Md think, Mr. Legge?" 

" I ought not perhaps to offer any suggestion." 

^*0h!,if'd6 htSp^ th^ybtk \vill, for thd affriir is now so invoh'ed in 
myster}7'that''if J'ou^(]ki^ld4hf^inf ariy light upon the subject I should 
feel indeed grateful." 

"Well, ma'am; <)f'et^utsevr don't know that I can ; but you have a 
gavd^iler*, and that '^rdenel- sleeps irt' the house. Now, I should Ix; veiy 
Sony, even to fhfow oiit a hint that would tend to injure aiiy mail 
breathing, but as Pknoit'Sthat i^vHnts are, and what quarrels-^petty 



TUB SOMNAlfBlXIST. 45 

qimrrels — tlioy liavo oocawoiialJy aiiiDn^ tlioiusi'lvcH^ I woiiltl sirj^ost 
tlmt It is possiblo-^jiwt iXK^sihlc — that iIh* jfaixlt*iK*r, (lui*iii|r tho ni*rlit, 
tliws carefully displacwl these thinprs — not witli tuiy wicked objijct iu 
view^— but meiely for tlie piir]K«e ot'anuoyiiig the nmids/' 

*' A very pi-oper suggestioij," obsi»rved the reveiviul gi»utleiiian, vlio, 
fiuxiiiig' that stilts wouldn't do, ciuue down. *' Very pix)ix'r, iiideinl. It 
is possible ; nay^ highly probable." 

" But," observed Sylvester, " Judkins has lost all his clothes!" 

" Have you lost anything of value, ma am? — anytliing out of this 
room?" inquired Legge. 

"Not a single thing! Oh! by-thc-bye," she added, "where's the 
silver tankaixl?" 

They looked round the room: it was not to be seen: nor could they 
seethe salver ui)on wliich it had stood. Presently, however, the reve- 
I'end gentleman perceiving something under the couch, i*emoved it, and 
tliere found, not only the tiinkard and salver, but the bread, butter, 
ham, aiid a bmidle of clothes, which were instantly known to belong to 
JudkinsI 

This altered at once the complexion of things. It was then quite 
clear to them all, that this confusion had been created with no felonious 
intention ; and as it was plain that no entrance had been forced, Aunt 
£leaw>r, as well as her reverend friend, felt convinced, that Avith the 
motive assigned by Legge, the things had been thus disturbed by 
Judkins. 

Legge, however, now had a doubt on the subject, and gave Judkins 
the benefit of that doubt without delay. " I do not," said he, " think 
it was the gardener now." 

" Oh!" cried the Pastor, " tlie case is clear against liim! Look at his 
clojthes! How came they here?" 

" The very fact," retmiied Legge, " of theii' being hei'e, tends to con- 
vince me, that he is not, after all, the man. I think that if he had done 
it, he would not have left his clothes — ^for I do not believe that he lias 
sufficient art to leave them in order that all suspicion might be removotl, 
on the ground that no man, in his senses, would thus convict liimself. 
If he left them at all, he could only have left them for the purpose of 
having it said, * Oh, it couldn't have been him: he would never have 
been such a fool!' and I do not think that he is artful eno\igh for- that." 

" There's no telling," observed the reverend gentleman. " Really the 
world has got to such a pitch that there's no such thing as knowiug the 
hmnan heart at aU." 

"But," said Aunt Eleajior, "if it wpcpe 710/ Judkins,. who QXi' fearth 
could it have been?" , ■; ., 

" I can't imagine," returned Legge; " st^l I wovW nojt too haajtily con- 
denm him. AU I can say is, that this was not, done by any one of tlie 
pai-ty at my house last night." 

" I believe it," said Aimt Eleanor; " finally. believe it." 

" And so do I now," observed tlie reverend gentlen>fin. . " I did: a.t 
first think that they had done it by way of a frolic, which, in the house 
of a l^dy, would have been of course di^gractful. .However, as it is, I 



46 eVLVESTER 80UXD 

recal those obseiTations which I made >vith respect to your house, but 
I do hoiKi that you mil in future keep good hoiu-s." 

Aunt Eleanor now got out the wine, and requested Legge to help 
himself, which he, as a matter of coui-se, did ; but just as he had filled 
his glass, Msiry came into the room, excUiiming — "WeVe found the 
eggs, ma am; but, oh! in such a place!'* 

" Where did you find them?" demanded her mistress. 

" In the pickle-tub, ma'am." 

" In the pickle-tub?" 

" Yes, ma'am ; as cook was a fishing for a tongue, what should she 

find but the eggs, tied up in an old paii* of Judkins's '^ 

Here she stopped and blushed, and Aunt Eleanor blushed too, and 
the reverend gentleman tui-ned to smile, but Le^ge, who had just got 
his mouth full of sherry, didn't know at all how to get rid of it. He 
blew out his cheeks, and giomted, and strained, while his face became 
crimson, and eveiy vein visible, seemed in a fit state to burst, imtil, at 
length, he made a desperate effort to gulp it, but, as a portion of it went 
" the wrong way," that portion fomid out its mistake, and returned, 
and, by virtue of retiuning thus, caused him to spirt and to cough witli 
imparalleled violence. This was annoying, but he really couldn't help 
it. Aiuit Eleanor knew that he couldn't, and, therefore, in order to 
relieve him from embarrassment, appeared to be imconscious of the cir- 
cumstance entirely, and, turning to Mary, said to her, " Has cook been 
quarrelling ^vith Judkins?" 

"No, ma'am: they've had a few words, but not about anything 
particular!" 

" Very good," said her mistress, " you can now leave the room. 
" It is," she added, when Mary had left, " it is, I apprehend, as you 
suggested, Mr. Legge. These people, no doubt, have been quar- 
relling, and their object has been to annoy each other. This, 
however, must be ascertained. But have another glass of wine, Mr. 
Legge." 

Legge was almost afraid, but he took another glass, and managed to 
di'ink it with proper eiFect, and, when Aunt Eleanor had thanked him 
for liis attention, and the reverend gentleman had playfully entreated 
him to let him know immediately the " ghost" re-appeared, he bowed 
and lefl them to contemplate the case as it stood, and to devise the 
means of gaining the knowledge desired. 

Now, while he was thus engaged at the cottage, Mrs. Legge — ^having 
ascertained from Mary the substance of all that had occmr^, with the 
single exception of the eggs being found in that peculiar envelope — had, 
as a natural matter of course, been retailing tlie circimistances to all 
who came, among whom were Mr. Pokey, Mr. Obadiah Drant, Mr. 
Click, Mr. Quocks, and Mr. Bobber. Wlien, therefore, Legge returned, 
their anxiety to learn the minutiro of that of which they had heard but 
the outline, Avas intense. They crowded round him, and urged him to 
begin at the beginning, and pressed liim to drink, that he might open 
more freely; but Legge, having whispered to his wife, assumed an 
expression of mortification, and sat down in silence. 



THE SOMNAMBULIST. 47 

" Why, what is the matter? \Vliat'8 >vrong?" inquired Pokey. But 
Leggc returned no answer. 

"If there's anything fructifying in yoiu* mind, unpleasant," said 
Obadiah, " out with it, my boy, Hke a Briton!" 

" Wlio," demanded Leggc, with feigned ferocity, ** who broke into the 
Grange Cottage, last night?" 

" I didn't," said Pokey, " so that's enougli for me." 

" They who did," said Obadiah, " ought to be sensed, as they used to 
serve them in Nova Scotia, in the time of JuUus Ciesar, and Peter the 
Great!" 

" But was it broken into?" said CHck. 

" She sent for me, as you have heard, and there were the things! I 
never in my life ^-itnessed such a scene of confusion. The parson was 
thfere, and he told me at once that he shoiUd indict me for keeping a 
disorderly house!" 

" The parson! pooh!" exclaimed 0])adiah. " Don't they draw nine- 
and-tNventy millions of money, annnall}-, every year, from the vitals of 
the people? What do they want more? Look at the ecclesiastical 
swindle exposed by Joey Hume! Could Bohhy Peel defend it? I^ook, 
again, at Charley Bidler's motion, that was backed by Tommy Dun- 
combe! Do you mean to tell me — " 

" But," interrupted Click, " was the cottage broken into last night?" 

*^ Why, that's involved in mystery," repUed Leggc, ** no locks appear 
to have been broken, but, as Mr. Kouse said — ^" 

" Who cares for Teddy Rouse?" cried Obadiah ; " Wlio cares for the 
cloth to which Teddy Kouse belongs? They are what I call the locusts 
of liberty-!" 

" As he said," continued Legge, " the tilings couldn't have been thus 
dieturbed without hands. And now Pokey will have to prove that he 
didn't disturb them." 

" 1!" exclaimed Pokey. " Why do they pitch upon me?" 

" Mrs. Sound saw you near tlie premises. That's strong circumstan- 
tial evidence. You were there twice, which makes the case stronger. 
The bottom of it is, you're in a mess !" 

" But ril take my oath—" 

" That you'll not be suffered to do. Mind you, / don't say that you 
are the man that broke in, you wiU recollect that. / shall give no 
evidence against you; but it strikes me you'd better prepare for your 
defence." 

" I remember," observed Obadiali, " I remember that, during the 
French Revolution — " 

"Blister the French Revolution!" cried Pokey, who began to feel 
very much alarmed. "What's the French Revolution to this? But 
are you serious, Mr. Legge? Really, now, are you serious?" 

"Serious! It isn't a thing to joke about, / can tell you. You'd 
better leave the place till the matter blows over." 

" / can't leave the place. How can I leave? I've no less than four 
pair of breeches in hand!" 

In an instant Legge, luiable to controul himself, sent forth a loud 



44 MEIA«Mr£».a»(ll». 

tliar he IumI Dtily Uhmi Iri^rloxMiiii^ Polu^y, tliey, lu 0Oiiie.4*itlaMt,.j<lii«dl> 
liiiu; \ivA wl*eu W« kinl i:x|il»iiitxl llui n>2il cau^ oi* kb luirtli-i^wheu ike 
liad r4>l(l (k«m ot' die emcM l>eiufr iVmml in Ike pickk**tiib9< tiod 4tff kiti 
Judldiiii'H mnaUiH-^Uiiy 4>|)eued Uieir tdiuuklem, and sel n)i a nMuriniliiskii 
might liaTc bueii heard at the cottage. Nor was .tkia ebuUitmik;«i 
merrimeut tranMitory. Ptsal after peal dkl they seud turlkia niptiira^:i 
now kokling tkeirrilis iii, aiid caliiug out with paiu» mid tkeiLlHAnitiBg*' 
forth again with fresh vigour, until two or three of then becanio- so exrr\ 
hausti^ tliat, had not the chairs Ijoen established in -a rowt, Ikt^y jreaUy/ 
muHt have rolled on the groiuid. ' ' .. : > ..t ;' . hM 

*' Was the eggs smashed V'^ cried FoLey, in the Siudst of this.floemt. 
And again they broke loose, though in agony. . "iVokeerDd of piekledi 
ingiins," lie added, and tliis was tlio signal for another krad roMry.^Mwil) 
pickled breeehi^/' he continued, ^^pick--~.piokled— " > JMilg .ufetml^i 
unable to finish this sentence^ he tlirew hin^elf down on tke.iuat^ andi 
panted. ' * .. ;,:i ..j 

As the thunder succeeds the lightning^s flasl^so didiLjoarifaa ihia 
occasion succeed every sentence that was uttered, whether wdt^ ocnot; 
but ns men cannot even laugh for ever, they at length became ftuli*- 
ciently worn out to sit down in a state of comparative tranquiLKty. - .1 

L<*gge Uien explained to them what he had suggested^ and- theyithe&i 
saw, with perfect distinctness, that a quarrel between Judkins andveocftc 
had been the origin of it all. They, moreover, thought ila.yery Mt- 
match; but confessed that cook then had, decidedly, the beefc/of it,, 
seeing that Judkins liad done nothing equal to her msumed Soat 'pi 
pickling the smalls. i 



CHAPTEfi Vm. 



ROSAXIE. 



Th£ x>&gAi)^ ^Mtd a little swell w horn they called the god of laughter. 
Ilii^ luu^^ was Comus; aod he was fat, as a perfectly natural matter, of 
course. ; tt^ dida^t <k> Mwch — diey who laugh much, very seldom^ do — > 
but,. Botwithatgnding, in kis day, he was popular among the pagans. 
Very good.., ,N(^^ thai^ are, of course, various species of laughter. 
Therc^s the natural kuigk, the hysterical laugh, the hypocritical laugh, 
and the la^gh of the idiot; but the natural laugh is the only laugh 
whick springs aibsokitdy fivom pleaisure. Comus had a natural laugh, 
and he was, thesefoi^, hi,, Wliy, what an immense field does this .open 
for the .pliilaiythri^^st^ t« contemplate! Ccesar — ^who wasn't a fool — 
didn't like Cassius, because ho was lean. If this and that be put 
together, tQwkat will they amount! Momus — ^not Comus, but Mumus 



■ i <fn iigc^ ¥«faany-fernMkwy ft maa wltli0«l ft wiftclmv in Iur breaar, 
t]ha*!•hi^ iM dMignt «nd ti«fM*lu.TM8 might bo -seoii, which wfto ftll wry 
welli'lmfc whftt neeeMity, ev«n in tlmi po(>tie «g)e, \foiild IIm^fb haitp lieon 
fur ^MB ^prkKkMr/hftd a social aiMl political FatomoKir o)>taiiiHl? And 
how'iHfinkelj nore rahiabie would it be now^— liow flocieiy wonkl 1m> 
sitoipttied hy virtue of its iuti-oduction ! Fat is tlio natiu*al thut of 
lai^ter: natufai lau^iter nprings from pleasure: pleasure in dmrrd 
froBi'fai^ipiiie*: haf^Miiess from goodness, and gooilncss compKhcnds all 
tha viftuea.^. ' 'That is one side of the question: now look at tht^ other. 
Wto<yreP4awft really laughter-loving man tliin? No one. And why? 
Because laughter opens the shoulders— expands the chest — sti-ongthens 
and"Hiereaies the siae of the lungs, and thus generates fat. Jjeannesn, 
theii|ldei^otes the absenee of laughtiT ; the absence of laughter, the abaenco 
ofii^^eatvre; the absetice of pleasure, the absence of luii^iness; tlK^ 
alMiMio£Jiap|)ine8s, the ^absence of goodness ; and the absence of good- 
ness^ tha^abaenoe of aU the virtues. ^Vlio-^had they been contem- 
poraries—who would not have trusted Daniel Lambert — a man of 
oBft4doein*t4mow^how»maay stone -^ in preference to Monsieiu* — what 
was .hia name— ^the Living Skeleton? Let a Fatometer be esta1>li8hed, 
that the' amiable &t ones may be caressed, and the treacherous lean 
ones avoided i. Let a staodaixl of fat be fixed; and, as the cralty and 
designing .cati: never hope to reach it, society will be all the purer. 

fiforw; k ia'the pecidiar province of an author to be cognizant of the 
moat secret tkongbts, not only of his heroes and heroines, but of every 
person wtou he introduces to the world. Hence it is tliat he is held 
reapolMftbfeibr those introductions — and veiy properly, too! — but it 
would not be fair to attach to him this responsibility, were his libei-ty 
restrained. For example : he is allowed to foUow a lady into her very 
chamber, and to contemplate her most private thoughts, even while 
she is there; which would be, under any other cu'cumstances, highly 
incorrect. The lady herself wouldn't allow it; and, if even she had 
no great objection, by society it would not, it could not, l^e sanctioned. 
Th^ remarks are held to be necessary as a sort of an apology, or rather 
as a species of justification, seeing that it has now to be stated that Aimt 
£leanor, immediately after Legge liad left tlie cottage, excused herself to 
her reverend friend, and went direct to her chamber to have a hearty 
laugh. And she did laugh heartily, and, therefore, very naturally. She loved 
to hiugh, and hence was fat — that is to say, she had reaehed trot standftM 
which ought, for ladies thus circumstanoed, to be-xuuVerealljset up. It ' 
is no sufficient argument against the establishment of thi^-staDdftrd,tiHit 
they who love to laugh are not at all times happy. The^mem^oS plieasvirej 
for instance, ccmsists in being entir^y free from pain; buf where Ba*e we ' 
to find the acm^ of pleasure, seeing that pleasiwe and jtein are twins? 
Even Aunt Eleanor, who loved to }*ugh as ireU as; any My in the 
county, was not without tixmbles, albeit they were, few; 'aid even while 
she was laughing in her chamber, she thought ^ that iuystery which 
had not yet been solved. Feeling, however, then, thatt she had something 
like a dlue to its solution, her mind was more ti-anquil, and when she- 
had beecMnei in her judgment, suiSciently composed, she rettimed to Iftie 



50 SYLVKtXSR «OU|U> 

revcreocl gentleman, who suggested tliat they should at once nacertaia 
the cause beyond doubt; and the immediate consequence of this suggjes* 
ti<>n Hus, that Judkins was duly siunmoned. 

** Judkins," she obseni^, with the most perfect composure, " the ques- 
tions which I am now about to put to you, I hope you will answer with 
truth." 

**Cert*ney, ma'am!— cert'nev." . : 

** In tlie first place, tlum, I have to ask how you accQimt £>r that ^r 
traordinary confusion in the parlour V" 

^*lt'H my opinion, ma'am, that the place is bewitched t^thal'a.ipy 
opinion." i 

** Judkinft, what time did you go to bed last night?'' ... ,.. 

** About half<-past ten, ma'am." / 

" And what time did you rise?" ; 

*< Alx>ut nine, ma'am. I couldn't get up befi)re, because o£ mjr clothes.? 

** Were you in the room tho whole of that time?" ,, , 

"Yes, ma'am." 

'' You didn't once leaye it, &'om half-past ten last night until nine 
o'clock this morning?" ... 

** iNo, ma'am." / « 

** Are you quite sure of that?" 

".Quite r X 

" Judkins, if I discover that you are not telling me the truth, i.wiU<imr 
mcidiately diHclmrgc you; but if, repudiating falsehood, you confess to 
me now tlmt tho«e things in the parlour wore disturbed by you— r*"* - 

"By me, nui'am!" cried Judkins, in a state of astonishment f "/diii' 
turb the things, ma'am?" ^ 

" I have rcMSon to suspect that they iveve distiubed you." 

" Why, 1 wasn't out of bed, ma'am, the whole live-long nighti ; Be- 
sid(»s, why should I disturb them?" 

" 'i'o annoy cook and Mary. You are not on the most friendly terms, 
1 lM»lieve, with either." 

"Oh, 1 don't know, ma'am; I never interfere with 'em. Mary's /wdl 
enough; but cook's a cook, and you know what cooks is I — they^ all 
alike. J^ut if they was the very last words I had to speak, ma'asti Td 
Kfiy I didn't touch them things." 

" Judkins, I am at present bo\md to believe you ; but if I find that you 
liave beon telling me a falsehood, I will on the instant discharge youl** 

" You'll ncvei* find that, ma'am, I know; but I suppose, ma'am, that 
cook's been saying Homotliing against me !" 

" No, not a word; nor have I at present spoken a word to her on the 
subject. But desire her to come to me now. The matter must not be 
allowed to rest here." ^ 

Judkins then left the room: and lioth his mistress and the reverend 
gentleman felt that he was innocent; while Sylvester, who had been watch- 
ing the proceedings in silence, declared his conviction that Judkins was not 
the man, and jwinted out the utter improbability of his having disturbed 
the things with the Tiiew of annoying oook, seeing that it was not cook's 
province IQ^ replace them.: Aunt fileanor, however^ having evimiMAoed 



THE SOHKAHBULIST. 51 

tlUB investigation, felt botmd to proceed, and awaited with composure the 
appearance of cook, -who, on entering the room, felt somewhat flinried. 

" Cook," said her mistress, " have you and Judkins been quarrelling?" 

<* No, ma'am.** 

" There have been no words between you of an unpleasant natui-e?" 

" Nothing that can be called words, ma'am ; only, so siu-e as I ask him 
for taters, or turnups, or carrots, or inguns, or salary, or anything in 
respect of that, so sure he won't bring 'em till the very lastest minute, 
though I ask him over and over and over and over again. There was 
only thfc otiier day— now, ma'am, only jist to show you—" 

" I do not wish," said Aunt Eleanor, " to hear any tales, cook, of that 
description." 

"No, ma'am, I know; but then it puts me in a orkard perdicament, 
as I told him, no longer ago than yesterday — ' Judkins,' says I, ' you 
kfio^,' say^I, * it isn't my place,' says I, *to go,' says I, * pottering about 
in that garden, and I'm sure,' says I, ' that if missis,' says I, *• was to 
know it— '" 

' •'AllTlisked was, whether he and you had been quarrelling — ^whether, 
in short, you desired to annoy him." 

"Annoy him, ma'am! — / want to annoy him? Tlien he's been a 
telling you, ma'am, I want to annoy him, ma'am, has he?'.* 

" No cook ; but answer my question plainly : have you had any tvish 
t6= annoy himt?" 
' "Ndtrl, ma'am f— no, ma'am!" 

" Then how do you account for the fact of his clothes being found 
wfeefe they 'WeiteV* 

" /, ma'am, accoimt? What, then, has he been a saying that I put 
♦em there?" 

• »' Hd hAE been saying nothing of the sort, cook. I asked you how you 
accounted for the circumstance?" 

"Account for it, ma'am? I can only say if a my belief the hoiise is 
wholly haunted! If it isn't, ma'am, it's very strange to me ! As I said 
tb MaSrJ^ this blessed morning, * Maiy,' says I" — 

"But, eook," said Aunt Eleanor, promptly checking this natural flow 
of €(!6qn«ice, "for what purpose did you happen to go to the pickle-tub 
this morning?" 

' "IV^t, taa'am, 'cause, as the ham was gon*, I thought I'd bile a 
tdngue. But does he have the imperance tb think, ma'am, that I put 
Ms clothes there? Where was his clothes, ma'am? ' In course, in his 
bed-room! And does he mean to have the howdaei<>usncs6 to insini- 
vat^"-^ 

"He has insinuated nothing of the kind. But by wliom do you 



imagine they were put there?" % 
** I havetft, 1 " 



, ma'am, so much as a idiea!" 
"Then, cook, I'm to understtod that you Can throw no light what- 

evef on the stibjeet?" '"' 

•'Not the leastest in the world, ma'ainl" > . 

' ** Vfery well: then I have nothing more t6 s^ to ybu at present." 
' COOlt fliett, iMxough Witii ihaiiifefiA; i*lt(ctw^,tttxf^i toJ asuhei^fas 

£3 



52 SYLVESTER SOUND 

instantly acqiiiltetl of all participation, the nivster}' resumed its original 
cliaracti'r. Neither Sylvester, his aunt, nor their i*everend Inend, could 
imagine another clue. Even the power to conjt'ctiu'e seemed lost. 
Neither could suggest — neither could conceive — the slightest means 
whereby that mystery might be solved. 

"We must still," said the revei-end gentleman at length, "we must 
still have patience. Time alone can bring this strange matter to light: 
and that it will be brought to light, 1 have not the slightest doubt. We 
must, therefore, my dear madtun, still have patience." ' ' 

Patience! ^Vliat an admirable attribute is patience! How sweet ai'e 
its influences— how softening its effects! In the hour of affliction, how 
l>eautiful, how calm, how serene, how sublime, is patience ! Behold the 
afflicted, nicked Avith pain, from which Death alone can relieve them. 
By what are they sustained but by that sweet patience which springs 
from faith and hope I Patience, ever lovely, shows loveliest then. But 
who ever met with passive patience co-existing 'with active suspense? 
We may endure affliction the most j)oignant with patience — but we 
cannot with patience eiidiu*e suspense. The knowledge of the worst thfit 
can befal us, may be borne with patience — ^but patience will hold no 
communion with om* ignorance of that which we are ardently anxious 
to know. Aunt Eleanor, for example, had she kno\vn that the smalls 
had been put into the pickle -tub by cook, and that Judkiiis had upset 
the things in the parlom* — ^nay, had she even known that Mr. Pokey and 
his companions, or any other gentleman and /*/s companions, had actually 
entered the cottage — she woidd have endiu'ed that knowledge with 
patience ; but as she was utterly ignorant of eveiy thing connected witli 
the origin of these mysterious proceedings — as she neither knew what 
had induced them, nor had the power even to guess the cause to which 
alone they could have been lairly ascribed — ^patience was altogether out 
of the question. Hers was essentially a state of suspense with whidi 
patience had nothing whatever to do. 

Still it was, notwithstanding this, all very well for her reverend 
friend to recommend it; it was, in fact, his province to do so; for 
hainng studied deeply the Book of Job, he held patience to be one 
of the sublimest virtues. It is true — quite true — ^that he hadn't mudi 
himself. But then look at his position. He had to read two sermons 
eveiy week of his life; and his sermons cost liim a guinea per dozen! 
Siich a man could not rationally be expected to have patience. Nor, 
indeed, have men in general, much. The women are the great cards 
for patience. . Hence it is that they are so frequently termed ducks; 
seeing that, as dnckife, when they are hatching, sit upon their eggs a 
whole month, they arc the legitimate emblems of patience. But men 
are not ducks. 

It must not, however, be imagined, that because Aunt Eleanor was 
in a state of suspense then, she was not in general a patient person. 
She was; but being then in a state of suspense, she could not have been 
expected to be patient. She panted to know the canse of these strange 
proceedings — ^dnd people never pant with patience — and although tlie 
reve!^erid getitHdniW iiad advised her to be patient j she continued to pant 




■ ^^^>r./ry 



THE 80MKAMBULI8T. 53 

anxiously tbcroiighout the day; but at night slie "was as far from tlic 
achievement of her object, as she would have been had that object never 
been proposed. 

About half-past ten — ^being weary of the day — she retired to her 
chamber, and sat alternately listening and reading luitil twelve ; when, 
eveiything both in and around the cottage being still as death, she 
pr^ed, and went to bed, in the full assurance of protection. 

it has been said that there is no virtiie in prayer, seeing that He, to 
whom we pray, knows our thoughts before wc attempt to give them 
Utterance; but who, having fervently prayed, has not felt his spirit 
etberealised, his mind more at ease, his heart lighter; inspired as he 
then must be with the conviction that, ** putting his whole trust and con- 
fidence in Him," he has been in commiuiion ^vith his God? " aVsk, and 
ye shall haver involves a point of faith which teems with the most holy 
infloencGs; and piety can no more exist 'without prayer, than i)rayer can 
be eSedive without piety. 

.,0f course, it is not noeessary to pursue this 8nl)jo<-t here: the only 
otjectof its introduction is, to show Iioav natui-al it >vas for Aunt Eleanor, 
having fervently prayed, to feel assured of protection ; and, feeling thus 
ttwojed, to go to sleep. 

Sylvester at that time had been asleep nearly two hours; but having 
in a most enchanting dream fallen desperately in love with a Drj^ade, he 
dressed himself 'with care, and, on leaving the cottage, proceeded by ap- 
pointment to the arboin*. 

But the Dryade was not there! He looked anxiously round; but no! 
What could be the canse of it? That she icon Id keep her ai)pointinent 
he^&lt con%dnced, and therefore sat down to await her coming ; but he had 
no. sooner taken his scat than the scene in an instant changed, and he 
beheld in imagination a beautiful dell, in the centre of which he sat, 
upon a couch composed of moss and the still living leaves of Avild roses. 
For a time his eyes were dazzled l)y this lovely scene, and he saw but 
indistinctly the objects around him; but anon he could clearly distin- 
guish them all, and he turned with breathless wonder to contemplate 
their incomparable brightness and l)eauty. The dell was thickly studded 
with the sweetest and richest flowers with which the face of Nature 
teems; finiit of every conceivable s^x^cies hmig in clusters around, and 
while the herbs lent their fragrance to perfiime the air, the niingled 
odours were delicious in the extreme. Above his head there were 
myriads of golden-winged butterflies joyously basking in the glorious 
sun; and, as the beautiful birds, whose phunage, reflecting eveiy ray of 
light, shone with surpassing lustre, were floating aroimd him and skim- 
ming the clear miniature lake, of which tlie sm4ace was like polished 
silver, and carolling 'v\'ith all the wild sweetness of their nature : it was, 
altogether, the loveSest scene of which his fancy could boast the creation. 

He had not, however, contemplated this scene long, when the warbling 
of the birds simultaneously ceased, and he heard in the distance, one — 
as he imagined — ^Inust forth in rich stiains of seraphic joy. The effect 
was ravishing. He listened with feelinprs of the piircst rapture, and 
with feelings of raptmc the birds lii^tciied too. How sweet — ^liow en- 



Si 0TLTS9TES Mm 

chanting veiv thoic liquid ndtet^l Haw soft — how deliglitfid— lioir ibS 
ol' wild beauty! Wlint bird-^what celo8tud bird— could it be? The 
m\\>'\c ivasotl : and on the instant a Fvlph imporeoptibly approached, and, 
witli balmy l>natli, softly whiivporpd '^ KomUe,** Mid kined him. Thai 
kiss was eloctric. 'flu* blood nm thrilling through hia veina, and he ^t, 
with delight, transported. Rosalie! That was the name of her in whom 
his w1i< lie 8i^ul was centered. Rosalie ! He tinned : and she had Tanished. 
But he heard again tliose ravishing strains, and was thus reinspited 
with hope. But again they ceased: and again he titrned; and Rosalie 
stood Ix'forc him. Oh, with what ecstocy did he behold her. What joy 
— what delight — what raptture he felt as he gazed on her poerleis 
beauty! And she was a most beautiful blonde! Her cres, whidb ^one 
like brilliant stars, were orbs of iascination; her cheeks bloomed like 
tJio downy peaches; nature*s nectar bedewed her lips; and while her 
rich auburn hair flowed in wild ringlets luxuriantly over her diouldeM, 
her lovely fonn was enveloped in a veil wrought by sephyrs and silk- 
worms combined. 

" Rosalie, s^'cet Rosalie !'' said Sylvester, at lengtli, in the softest and 
most endearing accents of love, and extended his arms to embrace her; 
but just as he fondly lioped to clasp her to his heart, a bird of Paradise 
brouglit her a beautiful rose, which she placed in his bosom, smiled 
sweetly, and fled. 

" Rosalie, iny love," he cried; " let me embrace thee." 

Rosalie smiled again and glided round the dell, and then stood on the 
margin of the lake — ^lier only mirror — and adjusted her ringlets, and 
sang Jigain, even more sweetly than before ; and, while singing, entered 
a bower, and reclined ujwn a couch, when, in an instant the birds flew 
to the sides of the dell, and having each pluckeil a leaf from the rose, 
lily» eglantine, or briar, flew to the couch on wliich their goddess was 
reclining, and, haiing strewn the leaves over her beautiful form, c<Hn- 
mciiced warbling their song of repose. 

"Rosalie!'' again ciied Sylvester, sweetly. "Dear Rosalie, come to 
my arms." 

Rosalie smiled ; but pointing to the couch on which he had been sitting, 
apparently wished him to sit there again. 

Sylvester, however, with that impetuosity which usually maw our 
loftiest designs, felt rcsdved to approach the sacred bower, but no 
sooner, in pursuance of this resolution, did he advance, than myriads of 
birds fkjw m a moss to intercept him. He tried to force a passage, but 
tiiey opposed him still, and when, eventually, they retired, he found 
himself standing upon the very margin of the kke. For a moment he 
stood gazing intently at the bower, and the beautiful Rosahe covered 
with leaves. The lake, then, alone was between them, and feeling still 
resolved to appixKich, he was about to plunge in; but again the birds 
flew m a dense mass towards him, and, on being absolutely forced back 
to the coucli, m an i„stant the whole scene vanished before him, and he 
ioinid hmiselt sitting in darkness, and alone, in Amit Eleanor's arbour 
again. 

Hero for some time he remained sighing « Rosaliel— sweet RosoHel— 



TBS AOMyjjuiULurr. 55 

Bosaliet^^wy loyef* But as darkness still ruigned, and the mmph did 
not appear, he at length returned iu sadness and in silence to the cottage ; 
4nd having passed the outer door, which he omitted to close, proceeded 
to his chamber, undressed, and went to bed 

. STow, oa Sylvester made not the slightest noise, he disturbed neither 
his aunt nor any one of the senants: they slept soundly and weU, and 
thus continued to sleep for several hours after his retium; but, iu the 
morning, when cook came down, slie, on finding the outer door open, 
WW struck at once witii horror, and witliout giving even a glance, with 
the view of ascertaining how matters really stood, rushed up stairs 
again, shrieking " Thieves! — thieves I — ^thievesl" 
. lOut.ruidied Judkins with a gash across his throat>— for at tlie moment 
thfe;fil»ti shriek was uttered, he was endeavouring to improve the elm- 
iro^terialic respectability of his appearance by shaving-— and out rushed 
Moiy^'with her hair dishevelled; but their mistress on coming to the 
ddoa^ witliout leaving her room, demanded to know what was the matter. 

"Ohl ma'am," replied cook, "it's a mercy, ma'am, we haven't all 
been murdered! The door's as wide open as ever it can stick!" 
. "What, the outer door?" 
.. "Yes, ma'am." 

".Good gracious! — ^what can all this mean? Wliy I saw the door fas- 
tened myself. Have any of the things been taken away?" 

" I don't know I'm sure, ma'am. Go, Judkins, and look." 

Judkins did go, and found all seciu-e, and then returned to report pro- 
gress ; but while engaged in making tliat report, Aunt Eleanor, perceiving 
the sanguinary state of his tliroat, exclaimed " Judkins! — ^why, what on 
earth have you been doing?" 

" I was only a shaving, ma'am, when cook shruck." 

f* For goodness sake, go and stop the blood immediately. Do not," 
she added, addressing the cook, " do not suffer a thing to be touched 
till I come dowTi." 

She then closed her door and proceeded to di'ess ; and Judkins re- 
turned to his room, where he foimd, on consulting his glass, that although 
he never even contemplated suicide, he looked as if he had not oidy 
meant to commit, but had, in reality, committed the act. He had before 
no idea of having made such an incision. Tlic blood was actually 
streaming down his neck — it looked frightftil— it moreover created the 
absolute necessity for a clean shirt. Now, Judkins, who was a tidy man, 
had a strong aversion to whiskers : he had also an aversion to the prac- 
tice of allowing the hair to grow under die chin : he therefore shaved all 
off, from his temples to his collar-bone, and being endowed witli a broad 
lace and neck, he not only had an extensive field of stubble to go over, 
but as he was not, as a shaver, expert, and as liis razors were never m 
very fine order, he scratched and grinned during the pleasing ojDeration, 
wlule the stubble contested the groimd, inch by inch, and thus amused 
himself for more than half an hour every morning of his existence. 

On this occasion the entertainment was nearly at an end— ^he was in 
the last act, taking the final and triumphant upper scrape — ^when he 
heard. Ibe first shriek, which so paralysed his frame, that the xazot* 



S6 ^xuy^i^^^ mn^ -. 

walked. |ii jnstea^ pf i ^ecpiqp: on ,the aurfiice. Nq material injsury, hoitr-^ 
ever, tiad' Wen inflicted: he bled, it is ti*w?, vciy fipeely-^which, he being 
fi luiiTi (jf tuU 1ml nr, WHS not at all manrcUous^ — ^but^whpn h«h«dgothis 
best' hnt Irt^m t1ip/l'<JXT *iwt1 had filled np the gash with a band^'Of mipfi- 
he W^s all riglil agniJi^ and got down just in time to amst hie nitetreai^ 
in taking a guneral survey. . •):!.' 

'Hut there y^-m notliing iwong— rnothing lost— 4iothing out of its pku3»;«' 
crrei'}^hing was found precisdy as thej had left it, with the' sii^Iei* 
exception of the outer door, and how that had been opened Hone oowd- • 
tell It had a loc}c^ two bolta> a bar, and a chain, and. at there* wa«Jhot 
a single mark on the outside to indicate violence, it was perfectljr -dear 
that it had not been forced. The only questiim, thea^fore, waJB--how 
co'itld atiy one have got inside to open it? But this was a questioa which ' 
could not be, answered. t 



CHAPTEE IX. 

THE GUARDIANS OF THE NIGHT. 



A I'ARSONAGE-iiorsE in an isolated village, is, of all earthly plac(is^ 
the best adapted to the process of deadening a man's wits. If he have 
no occupation, save that which is strictly enjoined by the church— no 
hobby but liis garden — no society but that of the fat-headed squires 
aroitiicl' him— his case is indeed desperate. A clergyman thus situated 
is morally buried. H^ must be lofty ; he must be grave ; he must pull 
a Idri^ face; he must look severe; he must walk with excessive circum- 
spection i he must associate with none but those in whose hearts their 
hordes Have a miich warmer place than their wives, and of whom it may 
be recorded that, if taken from tlieir horses, not only while animated, 
biit when .they become dogs'-meat, the full half of that which they knohr 
isn't liiuc'iy.' ' No cifisliing of intellect does a pastor in that position expe- 
rien'c(^—il'6' new lights look in upon him: his mind becomes dim for lack 
of jiolji^lij his iniii^rinatio^i !?oars but to sink; his faculties are weakened 
by mil a^fisunce of that gxtnise which alone can impart to them strength; 
antl'lid giadinilly nnd injj[xrceptibly descends to the recognised level of 
the fij Acre iii -wliich he nun es, severely and securely cloaked up m the 
aiTogant v^nnty of ijxjiorance. 

TVnV f 1 li s 1 !:; 1 1 1 taul f^ I Aunt Eleanor's reverend friend was the exception : 
inasmuch as lie actually conceived the means by 'v>diich the cause of her 
pcrplixi'tiies might be discovered. He conceived an idea, which is very 
remarkable, that if lie sat up at the cottage one night, he should know 
all fibofi'tji't^ ftis miiid li^adn't struck such a light for a long time. He 
held: It 'to be fel^jan^! i Aiad so it was: so brilliant that it dazzled him 



at firtt; but vrheti he had bccotnc sonlewhat reconciled to its brilliancy^ 
he weit lo the (Jottage to show the light then*. 

-»H^, at' thaf 'tittle, hfld not the slightest knowledge of the fact that the 
do<jr of tb^' edttage hrtd been found open that very morning; but, when 
Atmt'Eleancfr had duly rriformed him of the circumstance — although he 
could not help expressing his amazement — ^he felt highly pleased) seeing 
thtsty^ it'i^s cle^ to hSn that the parties were determmed to cany ou 
their game every night, he, without the necessity for sacrificing more 
thiol a single night's rest, should be perfectly certain to catch them. 

t^^-TheffS^I i8,**sftid he, "this must be put a stop to. It cannot be 
tolemtedi' It lAust not be suffered to continue." 

^* But iww, my dear sir?" cried Aunt Eleanor. " How can I prevent 
its'cwHintiahee?" 

" You cannot," he replied, " but I can ; and I will do so, if the scheme 
which I have conceived meet yoiu* approbation." 

"My dear sir, whatever you suggest shall be immediately acted upon; 
gratefully wiU I adopt any suggestion which may be calcidated to relieve 
me from this painful state of suspense." 

" Then allow me, this night, to sit here," said her reverend fi-iend ; 
"here, in this room: take no notice of the arrangemeut; retire as usual, 
send the servants to bed, and then leave the rest to nic." 

" But, my dear sir; oh, but I cannot think for a moment of allowing 
yoii to sit up." 

" Why 7wty my dear madam ; why not .*" 

"Oh, it would be so exti-emcly inconsiderate of me to tax yoiu* 
kindness to such an extent." 

** 'My dear madam, you do not tax my kindness — ^if kindness it may 
be called — ^the suggestion is mine, not yours." 

" Of' cotuise I feel extremely grateftil ; but you do not think of sitting 
up sdbne." 

"Let me sit up with you, Mr. Rouse," said Sylvester; "«'C shall 
catch' them : and when we do, they ought to be punished severely." 

" Btit have you," said Aunt Eleanor, " have you, my dear, sufficient 
strength to sit up?" 

" Oh, quite," replied Sylvester: " sitting up is nothing." 

"But it will not be weU for you to do so," said the reverend gentleman. 
" The primary object is to make every thing appear as if no preparation 
for a discov^ery had been made." 

" Well, it need not appear, ^^ returned Sylvester ; " t can go into my 
bedroom, and then come down softly again; and then you and I can 
have a game of chess to keep us awake. I should enjoy it. It will be 
so very didl for you to sit here alone. Do let me sit iip with youV" 

"I fear," said the reverend gentleman, "that it will tend to defeat the. 
object in view." 

"Then let Judkins sit up," sdd Aunt Eleanor; "he can be in the 
little room adjoining." 

" My dear madam, the character of Judk5ns is still in — if* I may so 
temV it — the purgatory of sus^wcion: it has to be either vindicated clearly 
or cJOtidemned, Against his sitting up with me, I therefore protest.** 



58 fTtVXBTEB 60lTin> 

" But I Minot consent to your sitting up alone." 

" Well, then — let me see. Oh ! suppose then I bring Jones, my 
gardener, with me. He^s a very sleepy fellow, it^s true, but I'll manage 
to keep him awake." 

" Very well, my dear sir; by all means let him come. I. do n«t care 
who it is, so long as you have some one with you." 

^^Then that is decided: Jones comes with me. What time do you 
usually retire to rest?" 

" About ten, or half-past." 

" Then at ten o'clock precisely, we^ll be here. When those shutters 
are closed and the curtains are dGrawn no light can be seen, I believe?" 

** Not a ray." 

" Then at ten, my dear madam, expect us. It "^vill of course bo 
necessary for you to let us in." 

" Of course. I will be at the window at that hour precisely." 

The reverend gentleman then took his leave, and Aunt Eleanor 
congratulated herself on the prospect of the mystery being cleared upr 
8he, at the same time, resolved on having an excellent supper on the 
table, with wine, whiskey, brandy, and books, that there might be no 
lack of food, of either an animal or an intellectual character; and hav- 
ing, in pursuance of this wise ro43olution, airanged all her plans, she felt 
as if a weight had been removed from her heart, and became quite 
joyous and gay. 

Oh, how easily are we elevated — ^how easily depressed-^and when ana- 
lysed, what puppets we appear, not always the puppets of others, but fre- 
(jucntly our o^ni — acting by virtue of the very strings which we pullr— 
the creatures of the very circmnstances of which w^e are the creatCM»— ' 
but at all times puppets. It is strange that the human mind — ^which is 
often so powerful in its resistance to oppression, so strict in its adherence 
to principle, so fimi in its pursuit of all that is noble, just, virtuous^ and 
true, should be swayed by mere trifles : yet, while possessing all the 
elements of strength, so it is. A single word may cause om: spirits 
either to rise or to sink : a mere thought of our own may either plunge us 
into despair, or place us upon the very apex of hope. A cork at sea is 
more constant than we are; the imder-currents may swell and roll, but 
it still retains its position on the siuface : whereas, we are the sport of 
every wave — the slightest ripple may upset us. No matter how strong 
the mind may be, the loftiest, the mightiest, may be wrought upon by 
tiifles. Men scale a mountain and stumble over a brick. 

We are not, it is true, all equally sanguine ; but when we ai-e depressed, 
how soon mai/ we be elated, and how frequently are we, by virtue of 
viewing the veriest bubbles which Hope can blow. At such a time 
that which is nothing per se, may be made to amount to a great deal 
per ealtum. 

In the suggestion of Aimt Eleanor's reverend friend, there was, how- 
ever, something in reality. The course proposed was, perhaps, the only 
one at all calculated to lead to the achievement of the object in view. 
But Aunt Eleanor, instead of waiting for that achievement, viewed the 
object as being already achieved, in so far as that, after that night, she 



TBI 401INAHBULUT. 69 

should be no more annoyecL It was therefore that she felt as if a -weight 
]|ad been remored irom her heart, and became joyous. Nor was the 
pleasure derived therefrom transient. She was joyous throughout the 
day, and at night, when the village clock struck ten, she went to the 
window with a sndle. 

The reverend gentleman was punctual — ^that is to say, as punctual as 
reverend gentlemen are in general: he was ten minutes bcliind— ten 
minutes being always allowed to the cloth ; and when he appeared at 
the gate, with the gentle Jones, Sylvester qiiietly opened the door. 

Jones had been instructed to make no noise. He, therefore, made 
none. As he entered, he walked on the tips of his toes : not elegantly — 
no, by no means— but carefully, and ground his teeth to indicate the 
interest he felt in the due preservation of silence. 

" My dear sir," whispered Aimt Eleanor, as her reverend friend took 
her hand, " I really feel so grateful — '* 

" Not a word, my dear madam, not a word," he replied. ** We entered, 
I believe, tmobserved?" 

** I think so: I saw no one near." 

" Are the servants in bed?" 

" They will not go imtil I retire." 

" Very good. Then retire, my dear madam, and leave all to me. 
ril lock the door after you, in order that, if it be tried, it may appear 
that you locked it. I shall catch theui, never fear. I only want to 
know who they are: I only want to see them: there isn't a man in the 
village whom I shouldn't be able to recognise at a glance." 

" Be sure," said Aimt Eleanor, " that you do not expose yourself to 
danger. lam almost ashamed to leave you; but do make yom^self quite 
at home. You will find some hot water in the kettle, and — ^let me see-— 
yes, this is cold. Do make a good supper. The sugar and the lemons 
are on the sideboard, with the nutmegs, and — " 

"Beally, my dear madam, all tliis was unnecessary; but as it shows 
your kind consideration, I appreciate it." 

" Well but do make yoxu^elf, now, as comfortable as possible." 

"IwiUdoso." 

" You had better let me sit up with you now," said Sylvester. 

"No, my dear fellow, no: that might spoil all. Good night: good 
night. God bless you : good night !" 

Aunt Eleanor and Sylvester then withdrew, and their reverend friend, 
having locked the door, sat down to contemplate the supper before him, 
while Jones, in the comer, stood scratching his head, with great consti- 
tutional freedom. 

It was a very nice supper: very nice indeed: cold, but delicious : 
unique, but enough. The reverend gentleman eyed it with pleasure; 
he then eyed the brandy, wine, whiskey, and rum ; he, moreover, looked 
at the books — ^very good: they were very good books; but-r-rcry good» 

" Jones," said he, " you and I are fixed here for the night. Now, sir, 
repudiating all considerations having reference to station, I invite you to 
sup with me this evening." 



iO trvmeftzn sockh 

** When youVe done, sir, if yon please/* etid Jonei. 

"Nothing oi the sort, sir! Sit down now; and Fll show you how 
gentlemen enjoy themselves. Under the British constitntkm, sir, tiiiere 
is no station to which you may not he call^. It is highly proper^ there^ 
lore, that you, and every man, should be cognizant of gentlemanly 
conduct. Cincinnatufl, sir, followed the plough ; therefore, sit down at 
once, like a gentleman I'* 

Jones didn^t understand much of this, but as that which he did under- 
stand appeared to him to be very good and much to the point, he did 
sit down, although with evident reluctance. 

"Now, sir," continued the reverend gentleman, who had resolved on 
enjoying the society of Jones, " consider yourself, for the time bdbg, my 
equal You are my friend, and I am yours. We are now gentlemen, 
what have jt>u there, Mr. Jones?" 

"What, that?" 

"Yes, that r 

"That's a fowl, sir!" 

" A fowl, sir I Did I not say that we were on an equality?^' No 
gentleman over says sir, but to his servant ! Do me the favour to stod 
me a wing." 

Jones had never waited at table. lie, therefore, didn't know how a 
fowl was usually dissected. He, notwithstanding, took up a knife' and 
fork, and, although his hands trembled with violence, he, by virtue of 
diligent sawing and digging, got off the wing at last, and with it -half 
the back-bone and part of the ribs. '• 

"Very good," said the reverend gentleman; "fcz-y good. Wliat can 
I have the pleasiu-c of helping you to? Allow me to recommend this 
pigeon-pie." • 

" If you please. Thank you: I'll take it," said Jones. 

Take it I Well! The reverend gentleman sent him the pie, and as 
Jones thought ^he couldn't go vet*i/ far i^Tong, he walked into it b<idily, 
and ate from the dish. 

" A glass of wine, Mr. Jones?" said the reverend gentleman. 

" Yes, sir," relied Jones ; and, having turned over the tnitstald- 
pot, poured- out a bumper, and handed it politely to his revetend 
friend. ^ / 

# " Paps the bottle, Mr. Jones," said the reverend gentlemali. " That is 
your glass. I shall be happy to take wine with you." 

" Thank you, sii*i-^*bod health F^ said Jones. 

' *' My lo^fe W you," feiaid the 'tevei'end gentleman. 

Jones then proceeded to scrapeiip the mustard, which certainly didn't 
look tidy on the cloth ;' atid when he had succeeded in spreading it about, 
he, not knoAving what else on earth to do with the spoon, careMly \viped 
itoU'his apnfti."" 

^••Sfeaft'l'Sertd' jkM. a gla.<5S of ale?" said the reverend gentleman, whose 
gravify was imji^tiu^ble, -Vv^hile th6 face of Jones was fired mth con- 
fusion. 

" Thank you," replied Jcmes, wlio niadc another mess on the cloth, for 



Tins ftOMKAttBULUIT. 61 

ill his liastc to put down his kiiife and ftn-k to reply, ho, liaviiig his 
elboAVB quite sqiiai'e at the timo, upset n decanter of sheiTy. 

Tiie reverend gentleman took no apparent notice of this circumstance : 
he handed him the glass of ale gracetUlly; but Jones frit vef^if unconi- 
^NiAble. He didn't enjoy himself at all. He couldn't keep his eyes off 
his reverend friend. His veiy anxiety to do nothing wrong, rendered 
him so nervous, that he could do nothing right. 

^^ How do you got on, Mr. Jones?" said the reverend gentleman, who 
saw that he didn't and couldn't get on. 

" Capital," replied Jones ; " the pigeons is nice." 

This was said on specidation. The pigeons he had not even tasted. 
He coidd do nothing with them. He turned them over and over, and 
did onoe try to cut one of tlK3m fairly in half, but as his knife slipixMl, 
and the gravy fiew, he gave the thing up as a bitter bad job. True, he 
broke in the crust, and fished up a piece of steak, but he dared not again 
attempt to get a bit of pigeon. He wanted that pie in his tool-house 
alone ! — ^the pigeons would not have got over liim there. 

/** Another glass of wine?" said the reverend gentleman. 

Down went the knife and fork again on the instant, for every time 
the reverend gentleman spoke, Jones appealed as if struck with pa- 
ralysis. 

■*> Groodi health," said he, having filled his glass. 

" My love to you," again said the reverend gentleman. 
: .*.*'Beg pardon: my love to you," echoed Jones, who felt boimd to follow 
whatever suit might be led. But, oh! how sincerely did he wish it 
all over.' " If tliis here's the way," thought he, " gentlemen enjoys 
'emselves, blest if I a'nt pleased I wasn't a gentleman." 

" This is very fair wine," said his reverend companion. 

" Yes," returned Jones ; " tliis is very fair wine." 
. " There's some body in it." 

'* Yes, there's some body in it," but whether that body were dead or 
alive, Jones didn't know ; nor did he care. 

" Have another glass of ale," said the reverend gentleman, when Jones 
had recommenced operations on the pie, and Jones again lefl his work, 
and passed the glass; but these startling interruptions were veiy distress-r 
ing: indeed, so distressing, that Jones, having drank the glass of afe, 
wMeh he felt bound to do, the very moment he hid received. it^pult his 
knife and fork together and gave the thing up. . ; ....;. 

" But you liaven't finished," said his revei'end friendr .; ' . ;i .: i • 

" Done capital well," replied Jones. ** Not a. mite more, I tlwiikiyou." 



" Well; you have made but a very poor supper!*' 



• I 



.1 



" I ain't the leastest hungry in life !" retiwned Jonea* . ■ : ' /in /i . 

" Well, then, let us have the cheese." . - - .. • - •-, . i. . 

Jones rose, and havmg cleared a sufficient space on the tray> went to 
the sideboard and brought the cheese; and. when the ifeyei-end ,geiitle- 
man had sent him a sUce, he put it.intp his moutli w^U> 4» great degree 
of comfort. .;,, . 

j* A small piece more?" said his reverend, fiiend^, C 



62 BTLVKStfilt 80UKD 

Jonefl held liis plate, and had a small piece more. It might hare 
weighed a quarter of a pound ; but as he felt that while eating bread and 
checae, he couldn't make any very great mistake, quantity was not at all 
an object. He ate it; and then had another small piece, And ate that, 
and enjoyed it pretty well ; and could have eaten a small piece more, but 
wouldn't. 

"Now, then, suppose we have a clearance, Mr. Jones," said the 
reverend gentleman, blandly. "As you are, I believe, the younger 
man. Til leave the job to you." 

Jones then put all the plates and dishes upon the tray, and cleverly 
removed it to the sideboard; and when he had placed the various 
bottles upon the table, the reverend gentleman invited him again to a 
chair. 

"Are you fond of punch, Mr. Jones?*' he inquired. 

" Yes, I'm very fond of punch. I never tasted none; but I knowFm 
very fond of it, 'cos everybody as I ever knowed says it's nice!" 

" Then we'll have ^ome !" rejoined the reverend gentleman—" Well 
have some, my friend; and I shall be able to say with safety, Mr. Jones, 
that vou never tasted anything like it in your life." 

Or punch the reverend gentleman was a great connoisseur. He 
never drank any but that which he made himself; and, as a mA^, 
he was prepared to back himself against any man in Europe. Such being 
the case, there were, as a matter of course, great preparations. The 
lemons were cut in a singular style, the water was measirred, the KqiXors 
were measured, the sugar was measured, and the jugs were placed in a 
very peculiar position on the hob ; where they remained closely covered 
with napkins, until Jones thought his reverend Mend had forgotten 
they were there. But this was a mistake altogether. When the time 
prescribed had duly expired, the reverend gentleman drew off the napkins, 
and taking a jug in each hand, poured the beverage from jug to jug, 
backwards and forwards, for a quarter of an hour, during the whole of 
which time Jones's mouth was wide open. The jugs were then placed 
on the hob again, and there they remained another quarter of an hour, 
when they were again taken off, and again filled and emptied, tmtil the 
reverend gentleman filled a glass, and having three times sipped it, 
smacked his lips. 

" That's the way, my friend, to make punch !" he exclaimed. " N(5w, 
Mr. Jones, try that." 

Jones accepted a glass, and having drank it, boldly pronounced it to 
be nice. He liked it much ; he admired its flavour, and thought that it 
was almost worth while being a gentleman, since gentlemen drank such 
rare stuff as that. 

" What do you think of it?" inquired his reverend friend. " Will it do?" 

"Capital!" replied Jones. " Out and out! But I didn't know what 
it was till it Was gone." 

" Then take another glass, Mr. Jones." 

And Jones took another glass ; but his reverend friend helped himself 
to the sixth, before he ask^ him to have a third. He then said-«-«^ 




%r. tUi^ 



r "1y^:y,y .^;>^:V 



TB£ flOXVAUBULIdT. 63 

" Now, my fiiend, have one more — one more, Mr. Jones. Beware of 
the besetting sin of drunkenness/^ 

" You never see me tocksicated yet, sir, I believe V 

'' Never, Mr. Jones! But a drunkard is not to Ix; trusted. What do 
you think of my sermons on the subject, Mr. Jones?'* 

'^ Capital good! But them hard words jiuzzles us more than a bit.'' 

'^HajxL words, Mr. Joues, hit hard; and to hit a man liaixl is to make 
a man feel. Certainly; v6ritcUU aimpUx oratio eat; but ■■ ■ " 

"What say?'' 

" Veritaiis 9mpU» oratio esL'^ 

" Them's tha. dodges as does us.'' 

<' Hark! What noise is that? Listenl" 

" They're only ooming out of the Crumpet!" said Jones. 

" That's a late house, my friend. People go there to drink till tlicy 
ait drunk, and a drunkard has no command over himself. He cannot 
even keep his own counseL Quod est in corde sobrii est in ot'e ebrii. 
Therefore, never got intoxicated, Jones, my friend ; never get intoxicated.'' 

"No, sir." 

" Never. The practice is bad. It's a bad practice, Jones, a very bad 
praotioe. Intoxication*- What's o'clock? Past twelve. Mr. Jones, can 
I lawt you?" 

**.Tiust me, sir?" 

^^ I think I can. Now, Mr. Jones, look here. By this timepiece it's 
now ten minutes past twelve. Very well. Now I've got a great deal on 
my mind, and I want to turn it over. I'll therefore just stretch myself 
h^ on this couch, and if I aJiould drop off, when it's one o'clock call 
raa You are sure that I can trust you?" 

" There's no fear of that, sir." 

« You'll not go to sleep?" 

*' Not if it isn't one o'clock for a month." 

'^ Very good. But reoolleot, if you should go to sleep, I'll discharge 
you." 

" Oh, there's no fear of that," returned Jones. " I'll keep awake if I 
Uve." 

The reverend gentleman then reclined upon the couch, and in less 
than five minutes he snored so loudly that Jones felt justified in looking 
into the jugs; but he foimd nothing there; they were perfectly empty; 
and as they were empty, he mixed himself a glass of stiff brandy-and- 
water. 

But brandy-and-water. Brandy-and-water after punch, and suck 
pimch — ^pooh! what was brandy-and-Avater? There had been a time, 
and that time was not very remote, when lie held brandy-and-water to 
be drink fit for — gods he didn't know nny thing iibout, but he thought 
it fit for actual noblemen — ^they being the next best things he could 
think of. But then after punch, he didiit relish brandy-and-water. 
He drank it, it is true — ^that may be recorded — ^but he couldn't persuade 
his palate to rehsh it ! and, as such was the case, " why," thought he ; 
"why shouldn't I try to make a little?" He couldn't see why he 



C4 6YLVEMTEU 80UKD 

bIkhiU not. H<* had men Yds frieiul umke it, and that frigid was then fast 
asleep. He, oToounie, iidt justified in doing so, and ooniuieneed — at the 
wix>ng end, it is tinMV— but he commenced ; he measured out tlie whiskey, 
and then measured out the brandy, and then measured out the rum, and 
then peeled one of the lemons, and then cut it in half, and then squeezed 
it very properly into the jug, and then put in about the same quan- 
tity of sugar as tliat which his reverend Mend had put in; and then 
— altogether forgetting tlie water — ^he covered the jug with a napkin, 
and placed it upon the hob. Very well ! But while it was there, how 
was he to amuse himself? He thought of the pigeon-pie: and a great 
thought it was. That pie liad been a source of much annoyance, and, 
therefore, he resolved on having sat. — sat. being in those days the short 
for satis^tion — ^he ivoiUd liave sat., and he had it. He took the pigeons 
up without reference to knife or fork, and pulled them limb from limb! 
A lot of pigeons get over him ! Well, it was rich as &r as it went; but 
the idea then appeared to be very ridiculous. And so in reality it was. 
They didn^t get over him, then. He cleared the dish— completely cleared 
it — and having done so, turned with an expression of triumph to see how 
his punch got on. Well; it smelt very nice. He sipped a little — ^itwas 
very good; but as it seemed rather strong, he thought a little more water 
would do it no harm. He therefore put in a little water, and then, 
following the example of his reverend friend, poured it from jug to jug, 
till his arms ached. ^^ Now,*' said he, privately, " master and me is the 
only two gentlemen in this here village as knows how to make this 
here punch ;" and having delivered himself to this effect, and with the 
most entire self-satisfaction, he began to enjoy the fruit of his labours; 
and, having drank several glasses, pronounced it to be better — ^infinitely 
better, and nicer and stronger — ^than that which his reverend friend had 
made. 

But, then, how was he to keep himself awake? He couldn^t read; he 
had never been taught to read ; but he had been taught the game of push- 
halfpenny. He therefore got three halfpence, and a small piece of chalk 
out of his pocket, and having drawn five regular bars upon the table — 
liis right hand played mth his left. 

This, however, didn't last very long. It was not at all an interesting 
game. There was not much excitement about it. Whether the right 
hand won or the left hand won was a matter of very slight importance. 
He therefore turned with the view of conceiving some new delight; 
but during the process of conception he suddenly fell into the aims of 
S(»nnus, when Morpheus, who is generally on the qui vive, tickled his 
£Euicy with the flavour of punch. 



T^E^ S0UKAMBCU8T. 65 



• CHAPTEE X. 

J... ' THE GUAKDIANS DISCOVERED. 

WHf^N9;y£R Qvortals have iospircd a passion for spirits, that passion 
has always h^m the germ of infelicity. However strongly It may have 
been< developed, or however ardently reciprocated, discoinfiture has in- 
variably been; the nasult. Mortals never yet made matches with sph-its. 
Of th/eiar having loved them foiKJUy, we have heard, but in the annals of 
spirits thore .is noihii^ like an absolute match of the kind on record. 
Nor Js this to be lamented. Spirits may indeed do for mortals to love, 
bat .tbey! c^rt^inly. w^l not do for mortals to marry. They couldu^t 
guide,, they couldn^t govern, they couldn't hold them. Of all flighty 
wives they would bo the most flighty. They might dance very well, 
they might sing very well, they might look very well, and be \'ery 
eodbanting, but they would be found to be fit to love only in imagina- 
tion. . It is true that in all cases there is much imagination in love : 
two thirds of it is generally composed of imagination; but when love 
is all imagination, they by whom it is cherished are much to be 
pildedi .J 

Sylvester's love for Rosalie was all imagination. But then he loved 
only when asleep. At no other time did it in the slightest degree dis- 
turb him: albeit, so strong was its influence then, that, prompted by a 
vivid recollection of his imaginary interview the preceding night, he 
rose immediately after Jones had commenced a fine nasal duet with his 
reverend friend, and proceeded — Avithout at all distmbing ^hose guardians 
—to the arbour, invoking liosalic in the most touching tou^s of endear- 
ment. ; . ' , 

Here, afl«r having sighed deeply for a time, he belveld the scene 
suddenly change as before, and found himself .^^eatedin tie centa^e of the 
dell upon the same couch of moss and wild. roses.. But']^bsaliel 'Where 
was Rosalie? She was not there! , j. ,.'.'. " [ \ '[* 

He looked anxiously round. The.flowcxs wei;^ jSi'opjppgj^ jtlie .birds 
were silent; the lake had lost its former lustre, ana eyen t|^e "buttefflies 
were still. ,..-.,.}/ ,,..,/ 

Something had occurred! Every thing, aground ][iiij^r^eei^e4,ste 
with grief! What could be the meaning of it? What could 'fee 'the 
cause? Was Rosalie dead? 

Presently he heard a slight fluttering among the birds ; the butterflies 
came out, although cautiously ; the lake reflected a gleam of light, and 
the flowers raised slowly their beautiful heads. 

Sylvester turned, and saw Rosalie approaching. But her steps were 
lingering and languid. Her head Avas bowed down, and her counte- 
nance was sad, but her ensemble still was lovely. 

F 



G6 STLVEtiTEK SOUND 

As she entered tlie dell, he rose to meet her, and the bii-ds sung in 
concert a melancholy strain, which she answered, and made them more 
melancholy still. 

"Kosalie!" said Sylvester. "KosaUer 

Rosalie s tainted at the sound of liis voice, and having looked at him, 
blushed and became herself agam. Again the buttei-flies in myriads 
came forth : again the lake shone like crystal ; again the birds sang in 
their sweetest strain, and again the flowers bloomed and waived, inspired 
with joy by her beautiful smile. 

"Rosalie!" continued Sylvester, " sweet Rosalie!'* 

Rosalie silently glided to the couch, and having taken her seat at 
one cud, with a smile, pointed to the other, upon which in an instant 
Sylvester sat, and as they looked at each other with expressions of love, 
birds of Paradise playfully floated between them. 

" Sweet youth !" she exclaimed, in a voice which on his car fell Hke 
celestial music; but her countenance changed ; she again became sad: 
the birds ceased to sing, and the flowers ceased to bloom, and the but- 
terflies fell as if dead. 

Why what could be the cause of this? Was she not well?— or had he 
been too presumptuous? 

"Rosalie!" he exclaimed, after a pause, dming which they sighed in 
unison ; " Rosalie!" — why are you thus? 1 love you Rosalie ! — sweetest! 
I love you!" 

Rosalie again sighed, and bowed her head in sadness. 

"Rosalie! — Rosalie; Avhy arc you sad? Tell me, my sweet one! 
Tell me." 

" My beautifiU boy !" she exclaimed, and as she spoke, her sofl eyes 
swam in liquid love. "Oh! that I were mortal!" 

"Mortal!" echoed Sylvester — "Are you not mortal?" 

"^Alas!" she replied, " I am but a sphit !" 

" Then lovely spirit let me dwell vnih you here?'* 

" It cannot be mitil you are also a spirit. Then will the piu^est joy 
be ours." 

"But now, sweet Rosalie! — let me dwell here with you now?" 

"It is, alas! impossible. But even while this mortal banier exists 
I shall ever be near you : I will watch over, guard, and protect you. 
When you are sad, I shall be also sad : when you are happy, I shall be 
happy too.** 

" But, Rosahe! — dear Rosalie! — my love ! — I cannot leave thee !'* 

Rosalie smiled ; and by that smile he felt so inspired, that he rose to 
embrace her ; but in an instant the butterflies flew in a mass before hun, 
and, by shaking the downy feathers from their an ings into his eyes, com- 
pelled him for a moment to close them! — when they were re-opened, all 
had vanished, and he found himself sitting again in the ai'bour. 

Having dwelt for a time on the beautifiil scene from which he had 
thus been shut out, he with a heavy heart languidly returned to the 
cottage, and omitting again to close the outer door, proceeded at once to 
his chamber. 

During the whole of this time the reverend gentleman and Jones were 



THE SOMNAMBULIST. 67 

keeping up with spirit their nasal duet. By the effect of this, however, 
no ear could have been charmed. They were both very powei-fiil 
snorers, but the harmony produced was not perfect. Few, indeed, 
could have made more noise; few could have kept the tiling up with 
more zeal; but as Jones alternately touched C and F, while the note on 
which the reverend gentleman dwelt was a very flat D, the combination 
cannot be said to have been harmonious. The only marvel is, that they 
didn't wake each other. It is, however, perfectly certain that they 
did'nt, and that they slept and snored without the slightest interruption 
until cook came down at half-past six, and found the door open as 
before. Nor would they have been disturbed even then, had not cook 
been inspired with indignation, and instead of mshing up stairs again, 
closed the door with so much violence that it shook the whole house. 

This did disturb them both, and when the reverend gentleman had 
succeeded in recollecting where he was, he called out angrily for Jones, 
who trembled for the consequences of his conduct. 

" You have been asleep, sir!" exclaimed his reverend friend. 

" Ony jist dropped off, sir — scarce three winks, sir," stammered out 
Jones. 

" Where's the light, sir ? The fire out, too! Do you tJiink that you 
are fit to be trusted, sir? — Hark!" he added, as cook, who had heard 
them, rushed from the door to tell Judkins that thieves were even then 
in the house. " Do you hear that?'* 

" Ye-e-e-es, sir." 

"There they are! — ^Noav we shall catch them. Be firm: be firm. 
Jones! Jones! how came you to let the lamp out? I'll never forgive you, 
sir! — Where is the door?" 

" Can't find it, sir! Don't know the go of the room! Oh, here — " 
he added, sweeping the bottles off the table, for as the shutters were 
closed, and the curtains were dra'vvn, not a ray of light was visible. 

" What on earth are you about, sir?" 

" Beg pardon, sir! Thought it was the door?" replied Jones, who at 
that moment swept off one of the jugs. 

"You'll break all the things in the room!" exclaimed the reverend 
gentleman, who having given forcible expression to this sentiment, groped 
his way to the sideboard, and knocked down half a dozen glasses just 
as Jones had succeeded in tumbling over the fender, and bringing do^vn 
the kettle in his fall. 

" What are you at now?" cried the reverend gentleman. 

" Fender, sir," replied Jones, whose intellectual faculties were then so 
scattered, and who had become so excessively nervous, that he took his 
seat at once upon the rug, conceiving that to be the place in which he 
was likely to do the smallest araomit of mischief. 

" Tut! — ^bless my life! — where is this door!" 

" Can't think," replied Jones, still retaining his seat; "it's somcwhercs 
about, I know." 

" Where are you now, Jones?" 

" Here, sir." 

" Near the fireplace?" 

F 3 



68 SYLVESTER SOUND 

" Yes, sir/' 

" Tlu'ii kiH'p to the lift till wo meet." 

Jones had made up his mind not to move fi-oni the nig, but on being 
thus conunanded to go to the left, he went to the left; on his hands 
and knees, and the eonswjuenec was that, when they met, the reverend 
gentleman tell fairly over him. 

" Bless my life and soul, Jones, what are you about? Are you cvsayT 

" Beg paixlon, sir,*' i-cplied Jones, assisting him to rise. " Didn't 
dream you was so nigh." 

" But what in the name of goodness were you doing down there?" 

" Thought I shouldn't come in contract with nothing, sir. Thought 
I shouldn't break no more things. Broke enough already as it is, Tm 
afeard. Oh, here's the door, sir: here it is, this is it." 

" Tliut's right," said the reverend gentleman. " Now, Jones, be firm. 
But, bless my heart, let me see. 1 locked the door ! Tut ! What 
could I have done with the key?" 

" Pocket, p'raps, sir." 

" No: — ^let me— oh, I recollect: I left it on the table. Remain here: 
now, don't stir an inch from the door." 

" Not a ha'porth, sir: not if I know it," said Jones; and his reverend 
friend approached the table and anxiously felt for the key; and while he 
was thus engaged, Judkins, Cook, and Mary, came into the hall, and 
having stationed themselves at the door listened with very great in- 
tensity." 

" They're here, sir," said Jones. " They're ony jist outside. I hear 
'em now plain." 

"Hush!" said the reverend gentleman. " If they hear us talking 
they'U be off." 

Jones, at the time, felt that that was the best thing tliey could 
do. Shivering as he was with cold, and that too in total darkness, he 
was not then in a state fit to lament such a circumstance. But it did 
not occur. The people outside were not disposed to be off. On the 
contrary, the very moment that Judkins became convinced of the fact of 
there being persons then in the room, he proceeded to make arrange- 
ments in order to secure them. 

" Do you inin to Legge," said he to Mary, in a whisper, " and tell him 
to come over with a couple of men. We'U fix 'em now safe! And do 
you nm up to missis, cook, and tell her all about it, and ask her what's 
best to be done. 77/ keep guard here ! They shall not pass wi«.'" 

Away flew Maiy to the Crumpet and Crown, and the moment Legge 
had ascertained what had l5een discovei-ed, he rushed, without looking 
for assistance, to the cottage, in a state of mind bordering on enthusiasm, 
before cook had had time to explain to her mistress what she really 
meant. 

" Do you mean to say you've got 'em?" said Legge, as he entered. 

" They're now in that room," replied Judkins, " safe." 

" We'll have 'em out ! — well soon see who they are. — Why they've 
locked themselves in !" he added, on trying the door. 

" Who's there?" demanded the reverend gentleman. 



THE S0M5AMBULl!<T. 09 

"It's of no use, young fellows!" said I^gge. ** So you may as well 
open the door at once." 

" Wliy," said the reverend gentleman to Jones, on hearing th(»se words 
indistinctly, "that's Legge's voice! Has he timied housebreaker? — ^I 
know you, John Legge, sir!" he addetl aloud. " I know you, and you 
shall be punished/^ 

"Do you hearr cried L^;ge, who heard some one speaking, although 
he knew nothing about what was said. "Are you going to open the 
door now, or are we to burst it open?" 

" Bless my life and soulP cried the reverend gentleman, " where on 
earth is this key?" 

At this moment Legge placed his foot near the lock, and as the door 
flew open without much effort, he seizefl the reverend gentleman 
roughly by the collar, while Judkins gi-asped Jones by the throat. 

" So we've caught you at last," cried Legge, " have we? Come to the 
light, and let's have a look at you!" 

" What do you mean .*" cried the reverend gentleman. " Give me an 
account of this ruffianly conduct, sir. — What (lo you mean f 

Legge, regardless of these expressions of insulted dignity, dragged 
him to the light: but the moment he recognised the revenmd gentle- 
man, he relaxed his hold, and said, " There is some mistake; here." 

" Some mistake, sir !" cried the reverend gentleman indignantly. " I 
demand to know the meaning of this outrage. — Wliat right have you 
here?" 

" I was sent for, and we thought, on hearing voices in the room, that 
we had caught those fellows who had been up to their tricks." 

" Well, but— bless my life and soul, it's broad daylight! Why what 
is it o'clock?" 

" Nearly seven." 

" Nearly seven! — Jones, I'll never forgive you ! Don't you think that 
you ought to be ashamed of your conduct?" 

Jones didn't say whether he did or not. He, in fact, made no reply. 
Judkins had grasped his throat so firmly that, on being released, he 
was anxious, before he attempted to speak, to ascertain well if his 
swallow were right. 

" There has been some mistake, I perceive," resumed the reverend 
gentleman, addressing Legge, with comparative calmness. " The fact 
is, I have been waiting here all night, with the view of catching those 
persons. But," he added, as Aunt Eleanor made her appearance, " all 
will now be explained." 

Aunt Eleanor — ^^vho, on hearing of the discovery, at once suspected the 
cause, and had hurried on her things, in order to save the private feel- 
ings of her reverend friend from outrage — no sooner s«aw him standing 
in the hall, pale and shivering with cold, than she grasped his icy 
hand and said, "My dear sir! I fear that you omitted to keep the fire 
up. Mary, nm and light one immediately in the breakfast-room : there's 
a good girl, be quick. — Mr. Legge, I feel obliged by yom- attention. 
My servants w^ere not aware that Mr. Kouse had Ixien kind enough to 
offer to sit up with the view of discovering those jK-rsons by whom I 



70. STLVESTER SOUND 

have been annoyed; but, believe me, I appreciate your prompt desire to 
serve me, and feel much indebted to your kindness." 

" I hope you'll not mention it, ma'am," replied Legge. ** I only wish 
they had been discovered. They were here again in the course of the 
night, I imderstand, ma'am!" 

" Here — ^^vhat this last night?" enquired the reverend gentleman. 

" Oh, yes, sir!" interposed Judkins. " The door Avas wide open again 
this morning." 

" Jones ! Jones !" exclaimed the reverend gentleman, shaking his 
head at him very severely; "Jones! this day month, sir, you quit my 
service." 

Jones felt that he deserved this, and therefore said nothing : nor, in- 
deed, did Aimt Eleanor then, although she made up her mind to restore 
him to favour; but turning to Legge, she observed — in order to save the 
reverend gentleman from ridicule — " As I feel that you see the neces- 
sity for putting an end to these annoyances, Mr. Legge, I am sure you 
will think with me that the occurrences of this morning should go no 
further." 

" You may rest assured that / will not open my lips on the subject to 
any living soul." 

" You see, if it be known that preparations for a discovery ai'e made, 
those tiresome people will be on their guard; and although my object is 
prevention, not pimishment, they may for a time cease their annoyances 
and then recommence them." 

" I understand, ma'am," replied Legge. " Not a word shall escape 
me. I'd give five pounds out of my o^vn pocket, ma'am, to know who 
they are, because I cannot imagine what they can mean! And now, 
sir," he added, addressing the reverend gentleman, " I have to apologise." 

"No, not a word: not a word, Mr. Legge. You acted very properly 
—very." 

" But I'm sorry that I handled you so roughly." 

" Your conduct, Mr. Legge, was extremely correct: nothing could 
have been more correct— nothing. I'll therefore not hear a word in the 
shape of an apology — ^not a single word." 

Legge then respectfully bowed to them both and lefl the cottage : and 
Jones, who felt very uncomfortable, tried to leave too, but Aunt Eleanor 
perceiving his object, said, " I ^vish to have a word with yow, Jones, 
before you go. Cook," she added, " bring me a jug of warm ale. — ^You 
can go now, Judkins, and attend to your horses. My dear sir, now do 
go into the breakfast-room and warm yourself: your hands are like ice. 
How could you think of letting the fu-e out?" 

" Keally I am ashamed," said the reverend gentleman. 

"/ ought to be ashamed," interrupted Aunt Eleanor, "of having 
taxed your kindness to such an extent! But go to the fire, there's a 
good creature. We'll talk about this by-and-by: Jones and I have a 
word or two to say to each other : we shall soon have settled our little 
business. Excuse me five minutes, I shall very soon join you." 

The reverend gentleman then repaired to the breakfast-room, and 
cook soon appeared with a jug of warm ale, which she handed to her 



THE SOMKAMBULIST. 71 

mistress, who clcspat<;licd her at once to prepare as soon as ix)ssi1)le a 
" very nice bre^ikiast." 

" Now," said Aunt Eleanor, turning to Jones, who had l)ecn nianel- 
ling what was about to transpire, " drink up tliis ale; it will wami you; 
and when you have finished it come and assist uie." 

Jones lookj&d and bowed, and felt grateful. And he took the jng, and 
emptied it, atid wasn't long about it, for although cold without he was 
parched within, and the ale was nice and smooth. 

While he was thus enjoying himself — and it really was to him then 
a source of great enjoyment — ^Aunt Ele^inor opened the parlom' shutters, 
and having looked round, smiled as he entered the room. 

" I'm mortal soiTy, ma'am," said he, " that these things is broke. It 
were all done a sarching for the door." 

" Never mind," said Aunt Eleanor ; " pick up the pieces." 

Pick up the pieces ! Well ! Certainly Jones did think this cool ; 
but he went to work at once and did pick up the pieces, and put them 
as he picked them up into his apron, and while he Avas thus employed 
Aunt Eleanor was engaged in re-adjusting the things on the sideboard. 

Having very soon succeeded in making the room look tidy again, 
the amiable creature — who was anxious, for her reverend friend's 
sake, that the ser\'ants shoidd know as little about the matter as pos- 
sible — v^QXii for a basket, and having put into it all that remained of the 
previous night's supper, requested Jones to leave it at the cottage of 
Widow Wix. 

" And now," she observed, " you must manage to make your peace 
with yoiu: master." 

" I will if I can, ma'am," said Jones. " I know 'twas my fault, and 
I'm very sony for it; but \i you would put in a good Avord for me — '\ 

" Well, we'll see what can be done," she replied, and placing half-a- 
crown in his hand, started him off. 



CHAPTER XI. 

THE "spirit" appears TO THE PASTOR AND JOJfJES. 

There are few things more galling to a sensitive man than the fact of 
his having been found in a ridiculous position ; but while no one could 
have felt more acutely than Aunt Eleanor's reverend friend that the 
position in which he had that morning been found was ridiculous, none 
could have endeavoured more cnrnestly than Aunt Eleanor herself to 
induce him to repudiate that feeling, as one which ought not to be enter- 
tained. 

" Now say no more about it," she at length observed, after having 
heard impatiently a vast deal of eloquence, for the reverend gentleman | 



72 SYLVESTER SOUND 

oil this point, became extremely eloquent, as soon as he had ceased to 
shiver — " the whole affair resolves itself to this : Feeling fatigued you 
went to sleep ; and who can wonder at it ? while Jones, poor fellow, 
followed your example: no one can marvel at thatT 

" But he solemnly promised that he would not go to sleep. * Jones,* 
said I, *can I, till one o'clock, trust you ?' * Sir,' he replied, I remember 
his words — * Til not go to sleep if it isn't one o'clock for a month. I'll 
keep awake if I live!'" 

" And he intended to do so, no doubt, poor man. You must therefore 
forgive him. But, now, is it not strange — ^is it not mysterious — ^that that 
door of mine should thus be opened, night after night, as it is, and for 
no other purpose than that of annoying me?" 

" It is indeed mysterious," replied the reverend gentleman. " But 
ril solve the mystery — I'll find it out. Having entered into the 
matter so far, I'll go on with it. Practices of this character, my dear 
madam, must and shall be put a stop to! They are perfectly monstrous. 
They must not — ^in a civilized coimtry like ours — ^they must not be suf- 
fered to continue ; and so firmly resolved am I to get to the bottom of 
this mystery, that if you "will not allow me to occupy your parlour this 
night, I'll conceal myself in the shrubbery, and watch there!" 

" My dear sir," cried Aunt Eleanor, " oh ! for heaven's sake, do not 
dream of it for a moment!" 

" Nothing can alter my firm determination in this matter. I'm resolved 
to find it out, and I Avill find it out ; and imless you afford me an asylum 
in your parlour, into the shrubbery this very night I go." 

"Oh, but I cannot think of consenting to your sacrificing your rest 
for me in this way." 

"WeU, my dear madam, you know my determination: I watch this 
night in the shrubbery. If you close the gates against me, I'll get over 
the wall." 

" Close the gates against you! My dear sir, neither the gates nor the 
doors shall be closed against you. But let me prevail upon you to 
abandon this project-— or at least to defer it for a time!" 

" And in the interim suffer you to be constantly annoyed. No ; my 
dear madam, it must be done at once. I feel that I am now bound 
to make this discovery. I'll find them out. I am not a man to be easily 
thwarted: I am not a man to be turned from my purpose by any trifling 
failure. I ought to be, and I am, ashamed of having failed to make the 
discovery last night; but this night shall settle it." 

" Well, if you are determined, I cannot do less than express my gra- 
titude; but I do still think that it had better be deferred. Consider 
to-night you will require much rest." 

" Not at all! I'll manage that: I'll go to bed to-day, and thus prepare 
myself for night. But no supper! — -do not prepare any supper — ^it is 
to that I ascribe our failiu-e last night. Had it not been for the supper, 
Jones Avould not have gone to sleep ; these fellows, you know, while tl\ere's 
anything to eat, will gormandize, and gormandize, until they have no 
more animation about them than prize «pigs. Therefore prepare no 
supper. I'll bring something mth me to keep us awake." 



THE SOMNAMBULIST. 73 

" Then you mean to allow Jones to sit up with you again?'' 

" Why, I think that it will be, under the circumstances, as well." 

" Much better. But, poor fellow, you'll let him have some rest?" 

" I'll send him to bed the moment I get home. I'll manage it ; and 
we shall catch them. My dear madam, be assured of this — ^we shall 
catch them." 

Sylvester now entered the room, and when he had heard the substance 
of edl that had occurred, he begged to be allowed to sit up that night 
with the reverend gentleman and Jones. This, however, was strongly 
objected to, both by his aunt and her reverend friend, on the ground of 
his apparent physical indisposition, and when they had all made a hearty 
breakfast, it was finally arranged that the reverend gentleman was to 
come again that night at ten; that Jones was to accompany him, and 
that nothing in the shape of supper was to be on this occasion prepared. 

This having been decided to the entire satisfaction of all concerned, 
the reverend gentleman left ; and Aunt Eleanor conceiving that the feelings 
of Judkins might be woimded in consequence of Jones having been 
elected to sit up the previous night with her reverend friend instead of 
him, rang the bell and desired his attendance. 

" Judkins," she observed, as he entered the room, " although perhaps 
I ought not to suppose that you are simple enough to imagine that, as 
Jones sat up with his master last night, 1 had not sufficient confidence 
in you ; — I wish you to understand that that arrangement was made in 
consequence of Mr. Rouse having preferred, and very naturally, the 
attendance of his own servant to that of mine." 

" Yes, ma'am, I understand : oh ! yes," said Judkins, " but if he'd 
had me with him, things 'ud ha' been different." 

"Very likely." 

" Why, I've seen that Jones, ma'am — it isn't my place p'raps to speak 
not of no man — ^but I've seen him go to sleep with the bread in his 
mouth — I've seen him drop off in the middle of the day! — he's the 
sleepiest fellow as is. He sit up with a gentleman all night! The idear 
is rotten! He couldn't keep awake by any accident. I'd catch you, 
ma'am, a dormouse in the winter that would beat him." 

" My object," said Aunt Eleanor, " is neither to canvass the character 
of Jones, nor to dwell upon his eccentricities, but merely to explain to 
you that want of confidence, on my part, was not the cause of yoiu* not 
being chosen to sit up, and to impress upon you the necessity for keeping 
whatever arrangements we either have made or may make, with a view 
to the discovery of these persons, a secret." 

" I imderstand, ma'am. Depend upon me, I shall not say a word to 
a soul." 

" Very good. That is all I require.'* 

Judkins then withdrew, and Aunt Eleanor conceived that she had 
done all that was necessary to secure silence on the subject, but in this 
she was mistaken. 

Villages appear to contain no secrets. If any be suffered to exist 
at aD, they must find it a difficult matter to live. They must not 
even breathe but in silence : if they do they must instantly die. Every- 



74 SYLVESTEB SOUND 

l)ody knows everybody; everybody talks about everybody; evei7body*s 
business is everybody's business, and every one is fair game for the 
Avliole. And herein lie the humanities of a village. They must know 
something — ^hence they seek to know each other : they must talk about 
something — hence they talk about each other: they must laugh at 
something — hence they laugh at each other : they must denoimce some- 
thing, and they hence denoimce each other. This may be called " petty ;" 
but then a village is a petty world, containing petty people, whose 
general intelligence is therein confined. 

It might have been thought that Amit Eleanor had, as she imagined, 
done sufficient to ensure secresy in this matter; but although Legge was 
silent, and Judkins was silent, and Jones and the reverend gentleman 
were silent, IVL'S. Legge, when she foimd that she was able to get nothing 
having reference to it out of Legge himself, sent for Mary, who at once 
told her all. 

Having thus obtained the important information sought, ^L's. Legge 
told Obadiah Drant, and the moment he heard of it, of course the secret 
died. It was then indeed no longer a secret: for glorjring as he always 
did in everything bearing even the semblance of an opportunity of having, 
what he termed, "a regular fructifying cut" at those above liim, he 
went roimd the village, called on all his associates, and developed his 
fine inventive faculties strongly. He had received that morning a large 
order for a quarter of a hmidi*ed of bricks, but that of coui'se he could 
not attend to. 

" I say," said he, on reaching Pokey's residence, " I say, my boy! 
have you heard the news?" 

'* No !" replied Pokey. " What news?" 

" What! haven't you heard about old Teddy Rouse?" 

"No! what about /i/m.^" 

" Such a game, my boy! — such a glorious game! Pinned like a 
cockchafer! — regularly pinned! I'll be bound to say there liasn^t been 
a man so pinned since the time of the French revolution." 

"But how," cried Pokey, "how was he pinned? What was it all 
ahoutr 

" Wliy, you know Mrs. Sound has been much annoyed lately by 
ghosts, you know, and all sorts of things. Well, this blessed morning, 
you know, when she came down, who should she find in her pai'lour 
but old Teddy Rouse in his shirt !" 

" What ! the parson?" 

" The parson ! Well, in she ^^nt, and flew at him, and out she pulled 
him, and pommelled and scratched him, and shook him, and worried 
him, until Ted called out for mercy so loud you might have heard hiln 
all over the village.'* 
( " What! do you mean to say — " 

"Yes! — ^Well! w^hen she had him do^Mi flat on his back, with her 
fingers on his throat, and her knees upon his chest, she sent her maid 
over for Legge, and when Legge came, she offered to stand a poimd if 
he'd give Ted an out-and-out welting. Legge was a fool not to do it." 

" But do you mean to say—" 



TH£ 60MKAHBULI8T. 75 

" Do you think / wouldn't liave done it? If I had had half a chance, 
do you think I wouldn't have welted him?" 

"Well, but do you mean to say now this was the parson?'* 

" Teddy Rouse, I tell you I— old Teddy Rouse! Did you ever hear of 
such a game?" 

" And do you mean to say, then, that he was the ghost after all?" 

"Why, to be sure he was/' 

"TVie animal!" 

" Wouldn't we have served him out that night if we had known it ! 
I'll just tell you what I'd have done: I'd have caught him by the scruff of 
his blessed neck, and when you and Snorkings hod fixed his legs, I'd 
have dragged him to the horse-pond and given him a cooler." 

" Well, but I say, what did they do ynth him?" 

" Do with him ! Why, like a parcel of fools, they let him go! I only 
wish I had been there! He wouldn't have been let off so easy, I'll 
warrant. But isn't it sickening now, when you come to look at it? Isn't 
it disgusting that we should be compelled to support these vampires? 
These are the locusts that prey upon oiu* vitals! — these are the vultures 
that finger elevenpence-halfpenny out of every shilling the poor man 
earns! — The fact is. Pokey, between you and me, we 7W?/^^^have a rattling 
revolution. It must be a rattler, come when it may. Bobby Peel ought 
to blush for upholding this downright system of dead robbery. As 
Johnny Russell told him to his teeth the other night, * I'll tell you what it 
is,' said Johnny, * if you don't knock this fructifying swindle in the head, 
you may look out for pepper!' And he'll have it! It was just the case 
in Constantinople, under Peter the Great; it was just the case in China, 
when the Turkish ambassadors signed the Magna Charta; it was just 
the case during the Peninsular war, -when William the Conqueror upset 
the lot, and sent Russia off with a flea in her ear ; it has been the case, 
mind you, all over the world, and, mark my words, it will be the case 
here. Are ive to be plundered of our substance, to support a mob of 
locusts like old Teddy Rouse? Are we to be groimd to the earth, and 
taxed to the time here of eighteen himdred millions a-year, that such 
men as Ted Rouse may grow fat? Not a bit of it! No, my boy, we 
shall have a rattler! But I must be off. It's quite clear that Ted 
has put his foot in it this time. I thought it wouldn't be long before he 
was caught on the hip. Well, God bless you — I'll work him! I'll 
stick to him, my boy! But I say, only think though of Ted in his 
shirt! Ha! ha! ha! It's the capitalest go that ever occurred! Ha! ha! 
ha! Well! ta-ta! Ha! ha! I shall see you to-night. Poor Teddy 
Rouse! Ha! ha! ha! 

Thus he left Pokey, and thus he went romid, fructifying as he pro- 
ceeded so freely, that the thing assumed a shape of vast local import- 
ance ; and although Obadiah was pretty well known, he established his 
falsehoods on the basis of tinith -with so much ingenuity, that all his 
associates felt quite convinced that " Ted" had been actually playing the 
ghost. 

Of this the reverend gentleman was, however, unconscious. He went 
to bed at twelve, and Jones went to bed too, and when they rose about 



78 SYLVESTER SOUNP 

spreading out the idea of two men keeping up all night with nothing to 
sustain them but this cold stuff. 

" What gets over me/' said he privately to himself, " is that master 
perfers this to pimdh. Des say it's dear: boimd it's dear, although / 
woiddn't give so much as a penny for a pond-full on it, but that a gen- 
tleman like him, as can have punch whenever he likes, should perfer 
this here to it, is rum. But gentlemen certainly is queer swells. Wonder 
if they ever gets tipsy upon it! Des say they do though, or else they 
wouldn't drink it." 

There was, however, one point upon which Jones reflected very 
deeply, and that point was this: How could cold water boil? He had 
seen the soda-water effervesce ; he had tasted it during its effervescence, 
and found it cold ! the question Avith him therefore was, " How as that 
water was cold could it boil?" 

That was, indeed, a puzzler for Jones. But he stuck to it!— oh! he 
stuck to it : and brought to bear upon it, too, all the knowledge he had. 
He could make nothing of it, but he wouldn't give it up! The question 
still was, How coidd cold water boil? 

Now, while he was thus most intently engaged, and the reverend gen- 
tleman was reading a romance called " The Bravo of Blood, or the 
Sanguinary Smile," there was a scene of excitement at the Crumpet and 
Crown, which was never, perhaps, in that or any other village, equalled. 

Mrs. Legge had fainted. She was not a weak woman, but she had 
fainted. She had been standing at the door, and as the clock struck 
twelve she rushed into the parlour and fainted. Vinegar was of course 
at hand, and vinegar was applied ; and when she had been restored to 
something bearing the semblance of consciousness, she called for the 
Bible. 

" The Bible I" she exclaimed. " My dear ! get the Bible." 

Legge shifted her head from his arm to that of Pokey, and hastened 
up stairs for the Bible, and on his return Mrs. Legge cried anxiously, 
" Turn to Revelations, my dear — Revelations." 

Legge did turn to Revelations, and then said " Phoebe! What do you 
mean?" 

" Here," she replied, as he gave her the Bible, and turning at once to 
the sixth chapter, read, — "And I looked and behold a pale horse: and 
his name that sat on him was Death." — " Death !" she exclaimed. " I 
have seen him. He passed on a pale horse just now." 

" Wliat ! another of Teddy Rouse's tricks !" cried Obadiah. 

" You are a fool," said Legge ; and then turning to his wife, added, 
" Wliich way, my girl? — ^which way did it go?" 

" Towards the church," she replied. " But oh! do not leave me!" 

" But for a moment: I'll not be gone long, my girl." 

"No!" she exclaimed, clinging to him. "You must not go — you 
shall not go. If we are to die to-night, let us die together." 

" /'/^ have a go in," exclaimed Obadiah. " Come along. Pokey, come 
along, Quocks, come along, Bobber, my boy, we'll see what he's made 
of!" And Obadiah, followed by Pokey, Quocks, and Bobber, rushed 
valiantly out of the Crumpet and Cro^Ti, 



-'• r. V ^ -. ■_■- ft "" '!'*■"_; .-n 



fl 






76 SYLVESTER SOUND 

nine in the evening, they had a slight repast, and at ten o'clock precisely 
repaired to the cottage. 

Here Aunt Eleanor received them as before, and when she had indulged 
in many expressions of gratitude, and Sylvester had reiterated his 
wish to be allowed to sit up with them, in vain, the reverend gentle- 
man gave them his blessing, and he and his companion were left for the 
night. 

But that friendship which existed the night before had vanished. 
They were no longer friends. Jones stood near the door with a basket 
in his hand, while the reverend gentleman sat by the fire. 

To say that Jones much admired this arrangement, were to say that 
which is not exactly correct. He did not much admire it. Nor could 
he conceive how long he should have to stand there. There was, more- 
over, no show of anything to eat — that in his view looked ominoits: 
still he did fondly imagine that the basket which he held in his hand 
contained something substantial and nice, of which he might by-and-by 
perhaps come in for a share. This, therefore, did not distress him much. 
But when he looked at his position as a servant, standing as he was in 
the presence of a master who, being indignant, might not, perhaps, even 
permit him to sit, he did — ^not presmning to take a seat %vithout per- 
mission — tliink his case hard. It was, however, in his view, perfectly 
clear that he coiddn t continue to stand there all night. He knew that he 
must drop some time or other, and that was, as far as it went, a comfort. 
He had not been accustomed to stand long in one position: still being 
resolved to keep up as long as possible, he had recoui'se to a variety of 
manoeuvres. Sometimes his whole weight was on his right leg, and 
sometimes it rested on his left: sometimes he planted one shoulder 
against the wall, and sometimes he planted the other; and thus, by virtue 
of moving about, twisting his hips, and vexing his spine, he managed to 
stand there for more than an hour. 

At length, when he fancied that " drop he must," the reverend gentle- 
man turned rotmd, and said, " Now, sir, bring me that basket." 

This was a great relief to Jones : as he took the basket forward, in 
the full conviction of there being something therein delicious, he felt 
reinspired with hope, but when the reverend gentleman on receiving it 
said, coldly, " That will do!" he returned to his comer, to contemplate 
the scene in a state of mind bordering on despair. 

But even under these adverse circumstances, Jones could not curb 
his imagination. It dived into the basket, and there conceived a couple 
of ducks, a pigeon-pie, some bread and cheese, and the materials for 
punch. This he thought was not bad. Nor as a vision was it. It 
sustained him for a time, and when at length the reverend gentleman 
drew forth a bottle, he felt that that vision was about to be realised. 
One bottle only, however, was produced, and that was a peculiarly- 
shaped bottle. Jones had never seen such a bottle before. It wouldn't 
stand. But that it contained something nice, he felt fully convinced. 

" Now, sir, hand me one of those tumblers," said the reverend gentle- 
man. " The largest." 

Jones with alacrity obeyed, and when the reverend gentleman had 



THE S03CNAMBULIST. 77 

twisted off the wire, and cut the string which secured the cork, that cork 
flow out with a report so loud, that it caused Jones to stagger, as if he 
had been shot. 

" Hark!" cried the reverend gentleman, who at tliat moment fancied 
he heard a noise : but, after having listened and found all still, he tiuned 
and drank that which to Jones appeared to be boiling gin-and-water. 

" Now, sir," he continued, feeling sure that the noise which he had 
heard was made by Jones on being startled, " what have you to say in 
explanation of your conduct last night?" 

Jones had nothing to say in explanation. He couldn^t see what 
explanation was required. The case appeared to him to be clear as it 
stood — ^he went to sleep. That was all he knew about it, and all he 
could explain, and as he felt that that explanation was unnecessary, he 
was silent. 

"Do you not think, sir," resumed the reverend gentleman, "that 
such conduct, aft«r all my kindness, was disgraceful?" 

" Tm very sorry for it, sir," replied Jones, humbly. " It shaVt occur 
again, it sha'n't indeed, sir : I hope you'll look over it." 

" I gave you notice, sir, this morning, to quit my service in a month. 
Now, whether that notice be ratified or withdra>vn, depends upon your 
conduct this night." 

Jones bowed, and was about to return to his comer, when the reve- 
rend gentleman said, " Bring another glass," — and when the glass had 
been brought, and he had drawn another bottle from the basket, he 
added, taking the vnre off and cutting the string — " Now, sir, hold the 
tumbler, and then di-ink this off." Bang went the cork from the bottle 
to the ceiHng, and out rushed the beverage, wliich Jones thought hot; 
so hot indeed, that he blew it with great caution before he put it to his 
Hps ; while it hissed and boiled, and flew into his eyes, as if every bubble 
had some spite to spit. He soon, however, foimd that it was cold, and 
drank it off, and then gasped for breath and shuddered. He didn't at 
all like it. It wasn't at all nice. There was nothing in the flavour to 
recommend it. It was hard and sour, and cold — ^^^ery cold. 

" Did you never take soda-water before?" enquired the reverend gen- 
tleman, who saw him shuddering convulsively. 

" Never, sir." 

" Do you not Uke it?" 

" Why, sir— des say it's very good." 

" It mil keep you awake, Jones." 

" Shouldn't be surprised, sir." 

The reverend gentleman then emptied the basket, and Jones, to his 
horror, perceived — instead of a couple of ducks and the pigeon-pie — 
nothing but twelve of these bottles. 

" Well," thought he, " here's a pretty basin o' soup. But he can't 
mean to say we're agoing for to live upon this here swill all the blessed 
night." 

" You can sit down, Jones," said the reverend gentleman. 

Sit down! Yes! — that of course was all very well; but Jones was not 
thinking of that point then : he was turning over, opening, and fairly 



78 SYLVESTER SOUN.P 

spreading out the idea of two men keeping up all night with nothing to 
sustain tiem but this cold stuff. 

" What gets over me," said he privately to liimself, " is that master 
perfers this to pimcli. Des say it's dear: boimd it's dear, although / 
woiddn't give so much as a penny for a pond-full on it, httt that a gen- 
tleman like him, as can have punch whenever he likes, shoidd perfer 
this here to it, is rum. But gentlemen certainly is queer swells. Wonder 
if they ever gets tipsy upon it! Des say they do though, or else they 
wouldn't drink it." 

There was, however, one point upon which Jones reflected very 
deeply, and that point was this: How could cold water boil? He had 
seen the soda-water effervesce : he had tasted it during its effervescence, 
and found it cold ! the question -with him therefore was, " How as that 
water was cold could it boil?" 

That was, indeed, a puzzler for Jones. But he stuck to it!— oh! he 
stuck to it : and brought to bear upon it, too, all the knowledge he had. 
He could make nothing of it, but he wouldn't give it up! The question 
still was, How could cold water boil? 

Now, while he was thus most intently engaged, and the reverend gen- 
tleman was reading a romance called " The Bravo of Blood, or the 
Sanguinary Smile," there was a scene of excitement at the Crumpet and 
Crown, which was never, perhaps, in that or any other village, equalled. 

Mrs. Legge had fainted. She was not a weak woman, but she had 
fainted. She had been standing at the door, and as the clock struck 
twelve she rushed into the parlour and fainted. Vinegar was of course 
at hand, and vinegar was applied ; and when she had been restored to 
something bearing the semblance of consciousness, she called for the 
Bible. 

" The Bible l" she exclaimed. " My dear ! get the Bible." 

Legge shifted her head from his arm to that of Pokey, and hastened 
up stairs for the Bible, and on his retiu'n Mrs. Legge cried anxiously, 
" Tm-n to Revelations, my dear — Revelations." 

Legge did turn to Revelations, and then said " Phoebe! What do you 
mean?" 

" Here," she replied, as he gave her the Bible, and turning at once to 
the sixth chapter, read, — "And I looked and behold a pale horse: and 
his name that sat on him was Death." — " Death !" she exclaimed. *' I 
have seen him. He passed on a pale horse just now." 

" Wliat ! another of Teddy Rouse's tricks !" cried Obadiah. 

" You are a fool," said Legge ; and then turning to his mfe, added, 
" Which way, my girl? — which way did it go?" 

" Towards the church," she replied. " But oh! do not leave me!" 

" But for a moment: I'll not be gone long, my girl." 

"No!" she exclaimed, clinging to him. "You must not go — you 
shall not go. If we are to die to-night, let us die together." 

" IHl have a go in," exclaimed Obadiah. " Come along, Pokey, come 
along, Quocks, come along, Bobber, my boy, we'll see what he's made 
of!" And Obadiah, followed by Pokey, Quocks, and Bobber, rushed 
valiantly out of the Crumpet and Cro^Ti, 



r1 



1 

'4 




J^J^///// /'// ///' ///7/i^' <^>j';/<^: 



TUE riOMNAMBCLlST. 79 

But the horse and his rider were gone. Obadiah looked anxiously 
up and down the road, but could see nothing of them. Fei'ling, how- 
ever, that a display of valour then was essential to the maintenance of 
his reputation, he boldly cried out, " Now let's go up the road, my boys ! 
Death and his pale horse be bothered !'' 

" Bravo!" cried Pokey. " Aye, let's go up the road!" And they went 
up the road seeuig nothing to fear. 

Having passed the church, however. Pokey suddenly cried "Hark!" 
and the blcKxl of Obadiah Drant chilled on the instant. " Listen I" he 
added. " It's coming this way!" They did listen, and lieard distinctly 
something approaching. There were three roads before them; but 
down which of the three it was coming they couldn't tell. Presently, 
however^— having strained their eyes in those three directions — they saw 
what at first appeared to tliem to be a tall white pillar gliding slowly 
down the hill to theii* left. 

" Here it comes," ciied Obadiah, clinging closely to Quocks. " What 
— wliat can it be?" 

" Don't be frightened," said Quocks, " do-o-on't be alarmed !" 

It now came sufficiently near for them to distinguish the outline of a 
horse bearing a figure which looked like that of a giant!. 

Terror seized them on the instant. They could not move! The 
figure came neai*er and still more near, and, with uplifted hands and 
eyes darting from their sockets, they saw it slowly and solemnly pass. 

Both the horse and his rider were white— quite white — and both 
seemed enveloped in a cloud. White smoke appeared to issue from the 
nostrils of the horse, while tlie rider wore a long flowing robe, wliich to 
them looked like a vast %vinding-sheet. They thought of the passage in 
I^elations and trembled. It must be — ^it coidd but be — ^Deatli! He 
had, in their view, come to swallow up all, seeing that all whom he 
visits are doomed. 

As the figure disappeared each resmned his fonner attitude, and when 
it was completely lost to view they breathed again, but w ere still filled 
with horror. 

" Let us go," said Obadiah. " Come — ^let us retiun. Such sights as 
this are dreadful. We are but men, and as man is but man, these scenes 
are too horrid for man to bear. Let us go ; come, now let us go." 

They had not, however, proceeded far — locked in each other's arms, 
with a view to mutual secui-ity — ^^vhen they again beheld "Death," 
rushing ftudously towards them. 

"Preserv^eus !" cried Obadiah, darting into the hedge, closely followed 
by his companions. " Preser\'e us, or we are lost!" 

But before " Death" had reached them he urged his fiery steed to the 
right and sprang over the hedge, and then flew across the fields, over 
bank, ditch, and hm'dle, until he was lost to view again. 

They then retiuned quickly to the Crumpet and Crown; but before 
they could speak of the hoiTors they had seen they each had a large 
glass of brandy. 

But even then they were not so communicative as might have been 
expected. They were thoughtful — very thoughtfid. They looked at 



80 SYLVESTER SOUND 

each otlier and sliook tlicir heads with gi*eat significance ; but when they 
had explained briefly that they had seen that which Mrs. Legge saw, 
namely, "Death on a pile horse," they were silent; and thus they re- 
mained until half-past one, when Pokey, who had his reasons for making 
a move, suggested the propriety of parting — a suggestion upon which 
they almost immediately acted, and thoughtftilly repaired to their respec- 
tive homes. 

Dming the progress of these extraordinary proceedings, Jones, who 
felt that he was victimized, had swallowed on compulsion four bottles of 
that beverage which he abhorred, and sat dwelling on the problem he 
had proposed having reference to cold boiling water, while the reverend 
gentleman was reading the romance. 

Up to half-past two they had not been disturbed. They had heard 
no noise — ^with the exception of that which reached the reverend gentle- 
man's ears while opening the first bottle of soda-water — ^and as all around 
them then continued silent as the grave, they began to think that 
notliing at all calculated to call forth the courage they had in them 
would occur. 

About three o'clock, however, while the reverend gentleman was 
absorbed in a soul-stirring chapter of the romance, he imagined that he 
heard the outer gate close, and started. 

" Wliat's that?" exclaimed Jones. 

"Hush! hush!" cried the reverend gentleman. "Listen!" 

They did listen, and distinctly heard footsteps on the path. 

" Shall I go to the window?" said Jones. 

"No! no!" cried the reverend gentleman. " Let us hear how they 
attempt to get in. Keep your seat and be silent. Now, hark!" 

At that moment they saw the handle of the door move. 

"Who's there?" cried the reverend gentleman in a whisper, which 
startled both Jones and himself. 

No answer was returned, but again the handle moved, and then the 
door opened gradually, and then a tall figure, enveloped in a sheet> 
slowly entered the room. 

"Angels of Hght protect us!" exclaimed the reverend gentlenumi 
while Jones, who appeared to be at once deprived of life, dropped in sa 
instant upon the rug and hid his face. 

Of these proceedings, the figure took no notice. It walked slowfy to 
the sideboaixi, and having looked for a moment, shook its head, as u to 
indicate that there was nothing at all there that it wanted, and then 
turned and left the room as slowly as it had entered. 

The feelings experienced by the reverend gentleman then were awftd. 
He sank back in his chair, and for the first time felt that no one knows 
what he would do imtil placed in the position to do that which he con- 
ceives he should do. His heart had never before quailed, but it then 
sank Avithin him. He seemed fixed to the spot — completely spell-bound. 
Nor was it until some time after the figure, which he conceived to be a 
spirit, had disappeared, that he summoned sufiicient courage to speak to 
Jones, who had given himself altogether up for lost. 

" Jones," said he, at length, in a scarcely audible whisper, which made 




//'. ^ ///'// r/ //f' . //./^v: 



80 SYLVESTER SOUND 

each other and shook thcdr hoiuls with gi'eat significance ; but when they 
had explained briefly that they had seen that which Mrs. Legge saw, 
namely, " Death on a pale horse," they were silent ; and thus they re- 
mained until hall-past one, when Pokey, who had his reasons for making 
a move, suggested the propriety of parting — a suggestion upon which 
they almost immediately acted, and thoughtfiiUy repaired to their respec- 
tive homes. 

During the progress of these extraordinary proceedings, Jones, who 
felt that he was victimized, had swallowed on compulsion four bottles of 
that beverage which he abhorred, and sat dwelling on the problem be 
had propos^ having reference to cold boiling water, while the reverend 
gentleman was reading the romance. 

Up to half-past two they had not been disturbed. They had heard 
no noise — ^with the exception of that which reached the reverend gentle- 
man's ears while opening the first bottle of soda-water — ^and as all around 
them then continued silent as the grave, they began to think that 
nothing at all calculated to call forth the courage they had in them 
would occur. 

About three o'clock, however, while the reverend gentleman was 
absorbed in a soul-stirring chapter of the romance, he imagined that he 
heard the outer gate close, and started. 

" What's that?" exclaimed Jones. 

" Hush! hush!" cried the reverend gentleman. " Listen!" 

They did listen, and distinctly heard footsteps on -the padi. 

" Shall I go to the window?" said Jones. 

"No! no!" cried the reverend gentleman. "Let us hear how they 
attempt to get in. Keep your seat and be silent. Now, hark!" 

At that moment they saw the handle of the door move. 

" Who's there?" cried the reverend gentleman in a whisper, which 
startled both Jones and himself. 

No answer was returned, but again the handle moved, and then the 
door opened gradually, and then a tall figure, enveloped in a sheet, 
slowly entered the room. 

"Angels of light protect us!" exclaimed the reverend gentleman, 
while Jones, who appeared to be at once deprived of life, dropped in an 
instant upon the rug and hid his face. 

Of these proceedings, the figure took no notice. It walked slowly to 
the sideboai-d, and having looked for a moment, shook its head, as if to 
indicate that there was nothing at all there that it wanted, and then 
turned and left the room as slowly as it had entered. 

The feelings experienced by the reverend gentleman then were awful. 
He sank back in his chair, and for the first time felt that no one knows 
what he would do until placed in the position to do that which he con- 
ceives he should do. His heart had never before quailed, but it then 
sank within him. He seemed fixed to the spot— completely spell-bound. 
Nor was it until some time after the figure, which he conceived to be a 
spirit, had disappeared, that he summoned sufiicient courage to speak to 
Jones, who had given himself altogether up for lost. 

" Jones," said he, at length, in a scarcely audible whisper, which made 




^ 



-^, 



//•■ . ///■// ,y ■V/r ■ //.j/r/; 






^v 






~f[ Aal^-Vf^.'- 






THE S0MNAMBUU8T. 81 

the poor fellow start convulsively, conceivinp: that the spirit itself had 
called him, " Jones : rise and put your trust in Ilim who can and wll 
protect us." 

Jones, with an aspect of horror, looked up, and in trcmbUng accents 
cried, " O-o-o-o-o! is it you?" 

" It is." replied the reverend gentleman. " Arise." 

Jones did arise, and having rolled his eyes feaifiilly roimd the room, 
with the view of being sure that it was gone, sank into his chair ex- 
hausted. 

Horror had chilled them both, and having nothing but soda-water 
within them, they were both still cold, and continued to tremble. 

"Jones," said the reverend gentleman, after a pause, "reach the 
brandy ; it is there, on the sideboard." 

" Oh, sirl" replied Jones, " I dare not." 

The reverend gentleman nerved himself; and, turning his eyes in 
every direction, walked with comparative firmness to the sideboard, and 
returned to his chair "with the decanter and a glass, which he filled with 
all the steadiness at his command, and then at once drank it off. 

" Now, Jones," said he, when the glass had been refilled, " take this!" 
And Jones, whose teeth at the time violently chattered, did take it, and 
swallowing the contents at one gulp, was very thankful. 

They now began to feel somewhat better; and although the improve- 
ment as yet was but slight, they were able to look round the room — 
timidly, it is true — ^but without that mldness of vision by which their 
looks had just before been characterised. 

" Pray, sir, give me a little more brandy," said Jones. 

"Yes, Jones, yes!" replied the reverend gentleman, replenishing the 
glass. " Drink tliis." 

" Bless you, sir! — ^bless you!" said Jones, Avith much fervour. " Oh! 
wasn't it horrid, sir — ^wasn't it?" 

"It was an a^vful sight," returned the reverend gentleman, as he 
helped himself to a little more brandy. " But why," he added, " why 
should we fear?" 

Jones shook his head and shuddered. 

The door was still open, and as the cold air rushed in, the reverend 
gentleman deemed it expedient to close it, and suggested the propriety 
of doing so to Jones ; but as Jones, even then, dared not cross the room 
alone, it was eventually agreed that they should both go together — and 
together they accordingly went. But the moment they had reached the 
door of the parlour, they saw the outer door open too, which they held 
to be very mysterious, seeing that they had heard no bolt "withdrawn. 
Finding, however, that all was then still, they closed the outer door, but 
they had no sooner done so, than they heard distinctly footsteps behind 
them, and on turning round beheld the identical figure slowly ascending 
the stairs. Jones in an instant rushed into the room, but the reverend 
gentleman remained till it had vanished — ^not prompted by coiu:"age— 
nor indeed by any feeUng of curiosity — but because he had not the 
power to leave the spot. 

" Come in, sir!" cried Jones. " Pray, come in, sir — come in!" 

G 



82 SYLVESTER SOUND 

Aud when tlie figui*e had disappeared, the reverend gentlemen went 
in, but \vith an expression of unmingled teiTor. 

" Oh, do leave this house, sir — pray do!" cried Jones, as the reverend 
gentleman sank into his chau'. ^^ It's haunted ! — I know, sii*, it's haunted! 
K we stay we shall never go out of it alive!" 

" Come what may," retmiied the reverend gentleman, apparently 
gasping for breath, "come what may, here will I remain. But," he 
added, " let me not control you. If you Avish to leave, consider yourself 
at liberty to do so. Go, Jones — ^go, if you please." 

Well, Jones thought this kind — ^very kind : he appreciated the privi- 
lege highly; but then — how was he to get out? lie must necessarily 
go tlirough the hall! — and there the spirit might perchance meet him 
alone! Could he have vanished through one of the windows, he would 
have done so with all the alacrity of which he was capable, but as he 
could not do this, he converted a necessity into a vu'tue, by saying, 
" I shouldn't, sir, Hke to leave you." 

" Use your own discretion," said the reverend gentleman, calmly. 
" Until the morning da^vns, Jones, here 'will I remain. There is much 
latent wickedness in this world, Jones. I mean by latent, hidden, pri- 
vate, secret." 

" Yes, sir." 

" Wickedness is in all ages wickedness, but it isn't in all ages proved 
to be wickedness." 

"No, sir." 

" Wickedness mil, sometimes, prosper for a while." 

" Yes, sir." 

" But it never can prosper long." 

" No, sir." 

"It is certain to be found out, and when found out, punished, 
Jones." 

" Yes, sir." 

"None who deserve punishment escape." 

" Very true, sir." 

" This spirit which we have seen is, doubtless, the spirit of one who 
left the world with some secret um-evealed." 

" No doubt, sir. But what do you think, sir, of ghosts in general?" 

" The subject is above human comprehension, Jones, and therefore, 
we ought not to talk on that subject." 

This closed Jones's mouth effectually, and he began to reflect upon 
his sins. He remembered that he was indebted to the estate of a 
deceased landlord to the amount of sevenpence-halfpenny, which sum, 
as no one but the landlord himself knew of it, he had never intended 
to pay. The questions which he therefore proposed were — First: Was 
this the spirit of that landloi*d? — Secondly : Would it answer the pur- 
pose of any spirit to revisit the earth to enforce the payment of the simi 
of sevenpence-halfpenny? — ^and, Thirdly: Wouldn't the spirit rest until 
that sum was paid? To these questions he could give no satisfactory 
answer. He thought that it would hardly be worth a spirit's while to 
disturb itself much about the sum of sevenpence-hal^enny, but be at 



THE S0MNAMBXJLI8T. 83 

t resolved to pay the scvenpcnce-halfpermy to the widow, in order 
to make all sure. 

The reflections of the reverend gentleman were of a still more deeply 
metaphysical caste, lie had, theretofore, imagined uppaiitions to bo 
spiritual, ethereal! — ^beings having nothing at all physical about them! 
— ^but the spirit which he had seen was enveloped in a sheet, of which 
the material was linen — material linen! The question, therefore, was, 
Where did it get that sheet? The attempt, however, to solve this ques- 
tion w&s presumptuous. The reverend gentleman felt it to be presump- 
tuous — although he tried hard to get at the solution — and as he even- 
tually thought that he must have been mistaken — as he brought himself 
at length to believe that the sheet wliich he had seen was a spiritual sheet 
— ^he turned to the consideration of the course which he felt it his duty 
to pursue, and upon this he was engaged until the day began to dawn, 
when he and Jones left the cottage, and went thoughtfully home. 



CHAPTER Xn. 



THE FEARFUL CONJECTURE. 



When Judkins went into the stable that morning, he found Snorter 
steaming and bleeding at the mouth ; and feeling indignant at the idea 
of his being thus treated, he declared he'd give a crown if the horse 
could but speak. 

" What devil's tricks have they been up to now?" he enquired of the 
animal. .** What have they been doing with you? What have they 
been after? What do they want to spit their spite upon you for? 
Come out, old boy— come, and let's have a look at you. They've guv 
you a benefit this time, that's certain!" he added, on finding the hors(; 
in a worse plight than before. " Poor fellow! — ^poor old fellow! — have 
they been ill-using on you? Poor old boy! But Til catch 'em! Blarni 
their bodies on 'em, I'll find *em out. But a'n*t you a fool?" he con- 
tinued, indignantly, " Wliat do you mean? Why didn't you kick 'em 
clean off? What did you want to let 'em sarve you out in this here 
way for? Do you think I'd ha' stood it? Wliy didn't you strike out 
fierce, when you saw 'em come into the stable? You might ha' knowed 
what they wanted — ^it wasn't the first time. Wliat did you want to let 
*em take advantage of yoiir ignorance for? You know them as treats 
you well, don't you? Very well, then, why don't you know them as 
treats you ill? Poor old boy! come and let's wash youi* mouth out. 
Poor old fellow! There — you'll soon be all right again. You a n't lame, 
are you? No, you a'n't lame. Come along in again, and make your 

G 3 



84 STLVESTEB SOUND 

life happy. Fll aoon come and attend to you. There, old boy! — ^but 
you ought to have struck out at 'em." 

Having thus by turns caressed and expostuhited with the anunal, he 
repaired to the kitchen, and having explained all to cook, asked her 
pointedly, what she really thought of it. 

" What do I think of it!'' she exclaimed. " Wliat can any one think 
of it? But how did they get the key? Did you leave it in the door 
last night?" 

" No, I brought it in and hung it upon that blessed hook, where it 
has always hung of a night since the last go, and where I foiuid it 
hanging this morning." 

" Well, the fact of it is I can't live in the house, and so I shall tell 
missis directly she comes down. The whole place is bewitched. It's 
haunted. I'm "sure of it. It isn't fit for flesh and blood to live in." 

Mary was then informed of the circumstance, and when she had 
dwelt sufficiently long on the really mysterious character of the pro- 
ceeding, she went up to inform her mistress, who received the intelli- 
gence with a degree of composure, at which Mary was perfectly 
amazed. 

It must not, however, be supposed, that Aunt Eleanor failed to feel 
it. She did feel it deeply, but the expression of her feelings was cahn. 

" We shall find it all out, by-and-by," she obsei'ved ; " these practices 
cannot be carried on long. Time discovers all things. We must have 
patience." 

"But isn't it horrid, ma'am — isn't it frightful — that these things 
should go on, ma'am, night after night, wdthout having a stopper put 
upon 'em. 

" It is very annoying, Mary — ^very! But we shall discover it all be- 
fore long. I have no doubt of that." 

" I hope to goodness we shall," returned Mary, " I'm sure, ma'am, it's 
shocking to live so. It's enough to frighten all of us out of our 
wits." 

"Very true," said Aunt Eleanor, calmly, "very true;" and while 
dressing and listening to Mary's expression of fear, she at intervals re- 
peated " very true." 

Having finished her toilet, she descended to the breakfast-room, 
where Sylvester — who had as usual been called by Mary — soon joined 
her; and when she had explained to him the fact of the horse having 
been again taken out of the stable and treated with severity, he could 
not refrain from shedding tears; for as Snorter had been his dear 
father's favoiu-ite horse, and had been given to his aunt in the full con- 
viction that it would be most kindly treated, a variety of fond associa- 
tions were recalled, as he exclaimed, in touching accents of filial affec- 
tion, " I would not have him injured for the world." 

" He has not been injured^ my love," said Aunt Eleanor, privately 
reproaching herself for having said so much. " He has not been, even 
in the slightest degree, injru*ed. On the contrary, they appear to have 
t iken great care of him ; still it was wrong of them to ride him so 
hard; indeed it was wrong of them to take him out at aU; but believe 



THE SOMNAJIBULIST. 85 

me, my love, he's not injured. Well go and see liim after bi-eakfayt, 
shall we? Have yon kissed me this morning? 1 think you did," she 
added, as he kissed her again. " God hless you!" 

They then commenced breakfast, and freely conversed on the subject 
which had set even conjee tm*e at defiance; but before they had finished, 
their reverend friend cfdled, impatient to commmiicate all he had heard 
and seen. 

"I have, my dear madam, a tale of hon-or to tell," said he; but on 
the instant Aunt Eleanor raised her hand to enjoin silence, fearing that 
Sylvester, whom she fondly loved, ^vould by any such tale be dis- 
tressed. 

" Have the people in the village then seen the ghost again?" she 
enquired. 

" They have," replied the reverend gentleman. 

" Then, for goodness sake, do not tell us anymore alx)Ut it— Sylvester, 
my dear, you will have another vg^^^ 

"Not any more; I have had quite sufTicient?" 

" Then go, my love, and look at the horse. I know that you'll find 
him uninjiu'ed. And, Sylvester, dear, icifl you do me the favoiu- to take 
the 'pony, and leave an order for me at the giocer's?" 

" Certainly, aunt." 

" There's a dear." 

She then "WTote an order, and Sylvester withdrew; and the moment 
he had done so, she became extremely anxious to hear her reverend 
friend's " tale of horror." 

" My dear madam," said he, on being urged to proceed, " I scarcely 
know how to explain to you what has occurred; but let me, in the first 
place inform you, that a spectre on horseback was seen by the people of 
the village last night." 

• " A spectre on horseback ! The horse was mine. It was, therefore, 
at least a real horse, and I should infer, from the way in which the 
animal has been goaded, that the rider was a real man." 

"No, my dear madam, I am constrained to believe that the spectre 
which appeared on that horse was the same as that which I saw a])out 
three o'clock in your parlom-." 

" That which you saw! Good heavens! you amaze me! If you have 
seen a spectre, there is something in it, indeed! But explain, my dear 
sir, pray explain." 

" About three o'clock this morning," resumed the reverend gentleman, 
with an expression of intensity, " as Jones and I were sitting near the 
fire, I heard the gate close, and immediately afterwards footsteps coming 
slowly up the path. Well, thinking it advisable to wait imtil some 
attempt were made to force the outer door, we kept our seats, but in an 
instant we saw the handle of the parlour door turn, and a tall figiu-e 
clad in white entered the room." 

" Good heavens !" energetically exclaimed Aunt Eleanor. 

"I do not mean to say," pursued the reverend gentleman, "that I 
was not awed by the presence of this spirit : I do not mean to say that 
I did not experience an imusual tremor when it appeared ; but I kept 



86 SYLVESTER SOUND 

my eyes firmly fixed upon it— nsaw it walk with great solemnity of step 
across the room, shake its head, as if to indicate some disappointment, 
and then retire with corresponding solemnity to the door, past which it 
slowly vanished." 

" Gracious goodness! — ^you inspire me with terror." 

" WeU," continued the reverend gentleman, "having in some degree 
recovered my self-possession, I rose, and went to the door, and there, 
to my utter amazement, discovered the outer door openl How it be- 
came open, heaven only knows. I heard no sound— no lock unfastened 
— ^no chain removed — ^no bar unlatched— no bolt withdrawn. Indeed 
there was not time for any mortal to have accomplished even one of 
these things. Still all had been accomplished at once, and in silence — 
all had been done by magic! Well, I closed the door, and having done 
so, I heard the faint sound of footsteps behind me! I turned on the 
instant, and then beheld the same spirit slowly ascending the stairs!" 

"Gracious powers!" exclaimed Aimt Eleanor, "what can be the 
meaning of this dreadftd visitation?" 

"I gave no alarm," resumed the reverend gentleman; "I thought it 
would be useless — ^probably presumptuous. I therefore returned to the 
parlour and listened, and there we remained till the morning dawned, 
when, as all was still, we departed." 

" Wliat on earth can have induced this? What can it mean?" 

" I have hitherto, my dear madam, been to a certain extent a dis- 
believer in these supernatural appearances : I have hitherto held them 
to be either the coinage of a diseased imagination, or phantoms set up 
by designing men to draw the ignorant into superstition. But, although 
I still believe that the majority of those cases of which we have heard 
are ascribable to either knavery or enthusiasm, I now know beyond all 
doubt that spmts appear upon earth." 

" But, my dear sir, tell me," said Aunt Eleanor anxiously, " tell me^ 
to what do you ascribe — ^to what can you ascribe the awftd appearance 
of this spirit here?" 

" I know not, my dear madam, what to ascribe it to. I know not 
from what it may spring, nor to what it may tend. These things are 
far above human comprehension. But do you remember — ^believe me 
I do not ask for the gratification of any idle curiosity — ^but do you 
recollect any circumstance connected with any deceased friend, or any 
member of your family, at all calculated to warrant the belief that 
that friend or relative did not depart this life in peace?" 

Aunt Eleanor started, and tm-ned deadly pale! " A thought strikes 
me!" she exclaimed — " a dreadful thought! But no— no — ^no— it cannot 
be! And yet, that horse was his! Great heaven! if it should be the 
spirit of himr 

" My dear madam," said her reverend friend soothingly, as clasping 
her temples she burst into tears. " Compose yourself: be calm. As 
there is One above who protects the innocent, be assured that He will 
still protect you. Whatever may have befallen, I feel that you are 
guileless." 

" And he was guileless too." 



THE SOMNAMBULIST. 87 

" Then let the blessed consciousness of that fact console you/' 

" And yet — if he should not have been! — if he should have died 
with a falsehood on his lips! But oh!'* she added, weeping with bit- 
terness, " I cannot believe it." 

" Pardonme," said her reverend fi-iend, " you will, I know, appi*eciatc 
the only motive I have in putting this question: — To whom do you 
aUudeV" 

" To ray brother. My dear— my only brother." 

" Did not he die in peace?'' 

" Yes ! I must still lx»lieve it— although broken-hearted, he died in 
peace." 

" Then of what arc you apprehensive?'' 

" The possibility — the bare jwssibility— of his having, with his last, 
his dying breath, solemnly declared himself innocent of that of which 
he knew that he was guilty.'' 

" Had you any reason to suppose that he was guilty?" 

" The strongest proofs were adduced, but his wonl— which I had 
never known him to violate— in my judgment, weighed them do\m. 
It was almost impossible for any one but me to doubt the evidence of 
his guilt ; but, placing implicit confidence in his honour, / doubted it ; 
and when on his death-bed he calmly and solemnly repeated his decla- 
ration of innocence, every doubt on my mind was removed." 

" Was the ofience with which he was charged of a heinous cha- 
racter?" 

" I will explain, in order that you may the better judge whether he— 
which heaven forbid!— can be associated with this fearful visitation." 

" Do, my dear madam, and confide in my honoiu*." 

She then made an effort to be calm, and having dried her eyes, 
slowly commenced : — 

"My brother was a physician. His practice was extensive. He 
was mild, gentle, sensitive, highly intellectual, and amiable in all the 
relations of life. He was a dear brother to me. But to all he was 
kind— most kind. His heart was full of sympathy and benevolence: 
he was a philanthropist indeed. I need not tell you how he was 
beloved 1 To the poor he was a guai'dian — to the oq)han a father — to 
the widow a friend. His unassumed virtues were conspicuous to all, 
and by all within the sphere of his influence he was honoured. For 
years he retained this position, and not a syllable against his fair fame 
was ever breathed; but one night— one most unhappy night — ^the ser- 
vants of a lady whom he frecjuently attended, and whose reputation had 
been, up to that period, spotless — joined in this declaration : that long 
after their mistress had retired, they saw him distinctly leave her 
chamber; that he walked do^ni stairs stealthily, and quitted the house; 
and that as neither of them had opened the door to him, their mistress 
muj5t have let him in herself 1 Nor was this all. AMien their master, 
who had attended an agiicultural dinner that evening, had been informed 
of this on his return, other circumstances, which afforded strong col- 
lateral evidence, at once occurred to him. He had seen my brother at 
that very dinner; he had taken wine with him, and recollected that he 



88 STLVESTEB SOUND 

had left unusually early; he, moreover, saw him as he walked home, 
and spoke to him, and fancied — as my brother took no notice of him— 
that he Avished to avoid him. These cu'cimistances tended at least to 
justify the suspicions with which he had been inspired; and when, on 
going to his wife, whom he foimd fast asleep, she declared that my 
brother had not been there — although his stick was then standing near 
the pillow — ^those suspicions were confirmed. I need not describe the 
fearfUl scene which ensued. It ^vill be quite sufficient to say that he 
was frantic, and that having nearly broken the heart of his ^vife — 
whom he had theretofore tenderly loved — ^by his fierce denimciations, 
he rushed to the house of my brother, ^vith the view of taking sum- 
mary vengeance upon him. Here, however, he found that the whole 
establishment had retired, and when the servant, who answered the bell 
from the window, perceiving the excitement under which he was 
labouring, refused to let him in, he loaded my brother with the direst 
imprecations, and threatened to take away his life. In the morning my 
brother received a challenge ; and although he most solemnly declared, 
and called his servants to prove it, that at the specified time he was in 
bed and asleep, he was compeUed, by those laws of honour which, 
although prescribed by barbarism, civilization sanctions, to accept that 
challenge, and they met. He who felt himself thus deeply ^vronged 
fired first, and my brother fired into the ak ; again he fired at liim, and 
my brother fired into the air again ; when the seconds — ^perceiving that 
my brother was resolved not to fire at his adversary— withdrew them 
from the ground. Well — ^" 

" But what became of the lady?" 

" Her husband cast her off. He was advised to bring an action against 
my brother, but he loved her too fondly even then to expose her thus. 
He has since, I have heard, been most kind to her, although she has 
never been restored. But from that time, my brother became an altered 
man. He at once lost the whole of his practice ; but, having some little 
private property, that did not distress him much ; it was the knowledge 
that almost every one believed liim to be guilty of the crime, of which 
he constantly declared that he was innocent, which weighed his spirits 
doAvn, and eventually broke his heart. As you are aware, I was 
present at his death, and during his last moments he and I were alone; 
he was calm— quite calm and collected — ^and as the last words he uttered 
were these : — ^ Dear sister, I die happy in the consciousness of never 
having broken the seventh commandment ;' every doubt vanished : I felt 
quite sure that he was innocent, and I cannot but think so still : it is 
this dreadful vision that has suggested the possibility of his having at 
that solemn moment perverted the truth." 

" He would not have done that, be assured," said the reverend gen- 
tleman fervently ; " such a man as that whom you have described, would 
not, at such a time, have done that. I do not mean to say that there is 
no probability of this being his spirit — albeit, I am at a loss to imder- 
stand why it should be thus perturbed — it may be the spirit of yoiu: 
brother: it is possible — ^it may even be said to be probable — ^but I do 
not believe that you have anything to fear," 



TU£ SOMNAMBULIST. 89 

"I will myself sit up to-night: I will watch in my chaml)cr: I wUi 
pray for his spirit to come; and if it should, I will sjx'ak to it, and fer- 
vently entreat it to remove that weight which now presses so heavily 
upon my heart. I feel asstured that it will not harm me," she added, 
bursting again into tears. "In life he loved me too fondly, too 
tenderly — " 

" Dear aunt," cried Sylvester, who at this moment entered the room, 
" Why — ^why are you thus distressed? What has happened? Tell me." 

" These mysterious proceedings," said the reverend gentleman, " are 
80 annoying." 

"They are annoying — ^\'ery annoying," returned Sylvester. "But,*' 
he added, turning again to his aunt, " you were in excellent spirits 
when I left you." 

" I am better now, my love," she observed, making an effort to com- 
pose herself, " much better now." 

" And yet you are still in tears ! I cannot bear to see you weep, dear 
aunt. Come dry your eyes. You Avili not let me fret, and I don't sec 
why I should let you. I came to ask you to go for a drive this morning. 
It is beautifiil out. It will raise your spirits. The air is so soft, so 
mild, and so clear." 

Aunt Eleanor kissed him, and the subject was diopped, and as the 
reverend gentleman soon after left, Sylvester took his aunt out for a 
drive. 



CHAPTER XIII. 

THE EGGS AND EXOTICS. 



During the whole of that day no work was done in the village. 
The tradesmen then did not mind losing a day, for the times were not 
haid. The prosperous never complain of the times : nor did they. As 
their wants were small, a large supply was not needed, and as they then 
possessed all they immediately required, they met at the Cnmipet and 
Crown with the view of discussing the varied ramifications of the 
mystery. 

But Jones was the great card in requisition. They wanted Jones. 
But as Jones was a steady man, who very seldom came to the Crumpet 
and Crown, they didn't know how to get him. 

At length, however, Obadiah Drant — ^who "possessed far more impu- 
dence than any of his friends — offered to bet half a gallon of beer tliat 
Jones would be there in a quarter of an hour. The bet was taken, and 
Obadiah — seeing an old rotten sugar-loaf turnip in the road — ^went out, 
picked it up, walked with it to Jones, and offered to bet half a gallon of 
beer that that turnip was superior to any one of his production. Jones 



90 SYLVESTER SOUND 

laughed at this of course; and when tlie bet had been made, be produced 
a turnip somewhere about seven times the size. But Obadiah Drant 
would not admit that he had lost — ^lie declared that he would never give 
in until Legge had decided the point; and thus Jones — ^\vho well knew 
that he had won — ^was seduced to the Crumpet and Crown. 

Being there, he of course was considered a fixture. Pokey — who 
Avas artful in his way — ^hailed him as the first horticulturist in the 
coimty, and as the majority freely subscribed to this opinion, Jones was 
on very good terms with himself. 

They then cautiously alluded to the philosophy of spectres, and when 
Click, with all the energy at his command, declared his conviction 
that spirits never appeared upon earth, Jones looked at him with an ex- 
pression of pity, and then walked out of his silent shell. 

"What!" he exclaimed, "do you mean to mean that spiiits never 
comes upon this blessed earth." 

"Brajrvo!" cried Obadiah Drant. 

" Wliy, I see one last night 1" resumed Jones. 

" And so did I," said Obadiah. 

" But not the one as I seed," said Jones. 

"Mine was a tall'un," returned Obadiah; "a white'un! a white'un 
on horseback." 

" That a'n't the one then as I seed. I seed one — a white'un and a 
taU'un— " 

" Where?" demanded CHck. 

" Wlierel Wliy at the cottage I" 

" Were you at the cottage then last night?" said Legge. 

" In course we was there ! me and master?" 

" Indeed! I was not aware of that. But tell us what occurred, I am 
anxious to hear." 

" Well," said Jones, " but mind, it musn't go fiu-ther." 

" Of coui'se not, of coio^se not. No, no, no— ??o/" they exclaimed, 
simultaneously, " certainly not." 

" Well, then — a little after three o'clock this blessed morning, when 
master and me was consulting about rakes, horticulture, and rehgion, we 
heerd a scraping on the path that leads from the gate to the front door. 
Very well, says I, this'U do nicely: well wait till you tries to get in, 
my carrots. But before we'd time to turn ourselves round, in walks a 
spirit! Very well, thinks I; it's all very good, you know, as far as it 
goes, but what do you mean to be after? Well! the spint takes not 
the leasest notice of me, but up he goes to the sideboard, and looks, 
and presently he shakes his head awful, and turns and then stalks out 
of the parlour. * I say,' says I, ' what do you think of that?' says I to 
master. * Rmn, very rum,' says he, ' imcommon nmi.' * Well,' says I, 
* the breezes is blowing very cold,' says I, * let's shet the door' — and I 
went to shet it, and send I may live! if the front door wasn't as wide 
open as ever it could stick! Well! this did queer us rayther more than 
a little, but we shet the front door, and then blow yne, if we didn't see 
the self-same spirit a going up stairs, as slow and deliberate as if he 
belonged to the house, and paid all the rates and taxes. * Well,' says I, 



THE SOMNAMBULIST. 91 

' notliing like imperancc. Let's go and see wliat he's np to/ says I. * Not 
a bit of it,* says master. * Let's have a little brandy' — '^ 

" Teddy Rouse all over!" exclaimed Obadiah. " Brandy's the fructi- 
fying spirit of the cloth." 

" What do you mean?" said Jones, indignantly. " AVhat do you mean 
by that?" 

" I mean that Teddy Rouse '' 

"Why do you call him Teddy Rouse? My master's name is the 
Reverend Mr. Rouse." 

" But his christian name is TeddyP^ 

" Not a bit of it! Them as calls him Teddy is ignoramuses." 

" Do you mean to say that I'm an ignoramus?" 

"You're worser! — or you'd never have brought that there turnip to 
me, and have said that I couldn't produce nothing like it. He as calls 
my master Teddy is an ignoramus! I don't care who he is! I'll tell 
him to his face he's an ignoramus. My master's name is the Reverend 
Mr. Rouse, and I don't care who knows it." 

" Brayro!" cried the company. " Brayvo, Jones!" 

" Talk of Teddy," continued Jones, " as if he were your equal. I'll 
back my master— the Reverend Mr. Rouse — ^to look a ghost in the 
face against any man in England. Teddy, indeed! When he gave you 
the last order for a hundred of bricks, you didn't call him Teddy then, 
did you?" 

" But Teddy," said Obadiah, " is the short for Edward. I meant no 
offence." 

" Call me Teddy, Jack, Jem, or any thing you like, but I'll fight till 
I drop before he shall be called Teddy." 

" Well, then, let it be the Reverend Mr. Rouse ; I don't care, that's 
the man I meant after all." 

" I know it's the man you meant,'* returned Jones, who was still very 
indignant, " but if any man — ^I don't care who he is — calls him Teddy, 
I won't have it! I know what master is, and I know what he isn't: 
there ain't a man in life as knows him better than me, and am I to 
hear him — ^hear a gentleman, and what's more, a clei'gyman— caUed 
Teddy?" 

" Don't mind him," whispered Legge ; " you know what a tattling 
fellow he is. You should take no notice of anything he says." 

" Well," said Obadiah, " and what did the Reverend Mr. Rouse do 
when he had swallowed the brandy?" 

" Go and inquire!" returned Jones, fiercely. " You'll not get another 
blessed word out of mel" 

** Well, but don't go yet!" they exclaimed, as he rose — " oh, stop and 
have a pipe with us— don't go yet!" 

Jones, however, could not be prevailed upon to stay: he left at once, 
and the company, of whom the majority were at first .very indignant 
with Obadiah, began to discuss, with characteristic ingenuity and 
eloquence, the various bearings of the soene which Jones had thus briefly 
described. This discussion — interspersed as it was with an infinite 
variety of anecdotes— -lasted the whole of the day, and when at night 



92 SYLVESTER SOUKD 

they departed from the Crumpet and Crown their imaginations still 
teemed with ghosts. 

Aimt Eleanor had ordered a fire in her chamber, and, as her resolu- 
tion to sit up remained imshaken, she, at the usual hour, retired Avith 
her bible and prayer-book, and composed herself in a chair for the 
night. 

Before, however, Judkins retired, he conceived an idea. It struck 
him just after he had eaten his supper. He imagined that if he, by 
means of a string, were to establish a direct commimication bet^veen 
himself and the stable-door, he should, in the event of any one attempt- 
ing to take Snorter out of the stable again, know it. 

Acting at once upon this admirable conception, he got a ball of whip- 
cord, and, having seciured one end to the handle of the door, drew it 
carefully and tightly towards the window of his room, when, moimting 
a ladder, he put as much as he thought would be required through a 
hole, and on going to bed tied the end thus inserted to one of his toes, 
and went to sleep, in the full conviction that if a discovery were to be 
made, he should make it. 

But neither he nor Aimt Eleanor were disturbed. She sat reading 
and praying throughout the night, but no spirit appeared. This had 
the direct effect of subduing her apprehensions. She had prayed in 
the full assurance that if the spirit which her reverend friend had seen 
were the spirit of her brother, it would appear before her then, and 
hence, as it did not appear, she not only felt sme that it was not her 
brother's spirit, but cherished again the sweet belief that his spirit was 
then in heaven. 

When Judkins awoke in the morning, and took the whipcord off his 
toe, he was not exactly pleased with the fact of his not having been dis- 
tiubed. 

" Still," said he, " at all events nothing's been "wrong. This is a 
capital go, this is. I'll try this here dodge every night. Safe to catch 
*em by this here means : wonder I never thought on't before. How- 
sever," he added, " everything's right this morning — ^that's a blessing 
anyhow." 

And he really did believe then that everything was right, and with 
this belief strongly impressed upon his mind, he left the room ; but the 
moment he entered the garden he found that all was not right, for he per- 
ceived, at a glance, that about fifty exotics had been maliciously taken 
from the conservatory, and more than half buiied in one of the onion 
beds. 

" Wliy, blarm their bodies!" he exclaimed, as he tightly clenched his 
fists, and looked at the plants with gi-eat severity. " Couldn't they let 
even them alone? It's 7io use," he added, tlunisting his hands into his 
pockets, " it ain't a mite o' use doing nothing. A man may work, and 
tile, and slave, and sweat, till there's nothing left on him. These here 
warment spiles all he does, and sets him to do it all over again. It ain't 
a bit o' good : I see that clear. .1 say, cook," he cried, " cook." 

" Well, what do you want now?" demanded cook, who very seldom 
spoke sweetly. 



THE SOMNAMBULIST. 93 

^^Look here. On*y, just come and look. Here you are! Here's a 
go! Here's the warment," he added, " been at it Jigain." 

" Serve you right," said cook ; " I'm glad of it." 

" Sei*ve me right — what do you mean?" 

"Tm very much obliged to Mr. Judkins," returned cook, ironically; 
" very much obliged to you for lighting my fire." 

" Wliat do you meam? Don't bother me about yoiu- fire: I never lit 
your blessed fire." 

"In course not," said cook, 'wdth a bitter sneer; "in course. Mister 
Judkins, you didn't light the blessed fire ; nor did you. Mister Judkins, 
bile all the blessed eggs. I wish the last had stuck in your throat, that 
I do." 

" You're a lunatic, woman," said Judkins, severely ; " go and get a 
straight-jacket, you want one particular." 

" Do you mean then to have then the unheard-of imperance to ti41 
me to my very face that you did?i't light the fire, and didnt bile every 
individual egg we had in the house?" 

" I tell you, you're a lunatic. Don't bother wi«." 

" Oh, it's all mighty well. Mister Judkins, but Missis shall know of it. 
/ won't conceal it. I*ve kept a good many things from her, but this she 
shall know. A great, greedy gormandising glutton. I wouldn't have 
such a creature about the premises." 

" I know you'll get into the asylum," said Judkins ; " I know you 
will." 

"The asylum," retorted cook, sneeringly. "It would be a great 
blessing to society if you were in the asylum. One was not enough for 
Mister Judkins — ^two was not enough for Mister Judkins, nor three, nor 
four. Oh, dear, no! Mister Judkins must swallow the whole." 

" I can't talk to maniacs. Don't talk to me. I know you're not right 
in your head ; so go away, and don't bother." 

"Oh, you sha'n't get off quite so easy as you think for. Don't believe 
it. The very moment missis comes do^vn stands, I'll tell her all about it. 
/ won't favour you a mite." 

" No, I know you 'won't. But go away— do you hear? I've some- 
thing else to think about ; go away, go away, go away with you." 

" In c0urse, Mr. Judkins," said cook, tossing her head with accom- 
plished iJaock-affectation. " Certainly, Mr. Judkins. I'll go. Mister 
Judkins. Mister Judkins, in course, is a very great man. Oh, a very 
great man is Mister Judkins ; a mighty great man. But Fll cook the 
goose of Mister Judkins." 

" I wush, with all my soul, you'd cook yourself," observed Judkins, 
who, as she retreated muttering all sorts of menaces, tiu'ned to contem- 
plate his exotics again. 

" This is a blessing as far as it goes," said he ; " if it isn't, send I 
may live." But no sooner had he given expression to this remarkable 
sentiment, than a man led his mistress's pony and gig up to the gate 
and rang the bell. 

" Very goodT thought Judkins, as he went to the gate. "This here's 
the seed of something ^ 



94 8TLVESTEB souiny 

" Is this here pony yotim?" enquired the man. 

" Rayther," returned Judkins. "It w ourn rajrther;" and seizing the 
man by the collar, instantly added, " So, we've cotched you at last, have 
we? ^ Very good ; now, my little swell, con-sidev youiself booked. You're 
my prisoner." 

"What for?" cried the man, who had been absolutely taken by 
surprise. 

" Never mind what for," replied Judkins. " Don't be at all particular 
in your enquiries. Fm not. You'll only just walk quietly this here 
way, and then possibly, perhaps, the question may be by-and-by an- 
swered. Well, I shouldn't have thought it on you," he added, as he 
di-agged the man, who felt quite confused, into the stable; " send I may 
live, I shouldn't ha' thought that you'd had the stuff in you to do it." 

" To do what?" demanded the man. 

" Never mind," replied Judkins. " You're a beauty to look at; des say 
you're a beauty—no doubt. You and me shall be better acquainted, it 
strikes me." 

" What do you meanf^ <5ried the man. 

" Don't disturb yourself, my friend. It's very clear you won't disturb 
me no more." 

" I foimd the pony"-— 

" Don't trouble your intellects now at all about it. You'll have work 
enough for them to do, when you're afore the jury. Now then," he 
added, as with a halter he securely tied the man's hands behind him, 
" if you'd like to lie doWn for an hour, you can. You know this horse, 
don't you? I wonder he doesn't snap your precious little head off." 

"What do you mean?" cried the man. "I'll make you pay for 
this." 

" Very goodT replied Judkins. " That's nothing but nateral. But 
let's have a look at you — ^Well," he added, having surveyed him, "you're 
a good sort, des say — of the sort. Very good. You're a very clever 
sort too, no doubt. But couldn't you leave my plants alone? Tchal 
that was cowardly. WeU, I hope you'll have all the luck I wish you, 
and that ain't much ; but I'll leave you to yovu* private reflections." 

" But won't you hear me?" 

" Not a bit of it ! What's the good? but I'll see you again, by-and- 
by. If you'd been a man of six foot and a half, and very stout in pro- 
portion, I shouldn't ha' minded, but you, you little muck ! — ^however, 
good bye ; God bless you ; take care of yourself, but if you don't, I'U 
take care of you, so you're quite safe. You little wamient," he added, 
closing the door, and when he had most securely locked it, he returned 
to the cottage. 

" Missis wants to speak to you," said Mary, as he entered. 

" Very good, Polly, I wants to speak to her. So that meets the 
views of both parties consarned." 

" Well, I must say you're imperant, Judkins," said Mary. " But 
missis is in the breakfast-room." 

" Very good," returned Judkins. " Then into the breakfast -room I 




Wk.'^\kri..Alu 



^ 



r //'V//V'/'/////V/ /y/ //y/' ^ ^v/^. 



THE SOMNAMBULIST. 95 

" Judkins," said his mistress, when he had been desired to enter, " I 
am sorry to hear so bad an account of your conduct." 

" I know what you mean, ma'am. It's cook. Don't mind what she 
says, she's a huiatic, ma'am. 8he says I eat the eggs, — / never eat the 
eggs. She says I lit her fire, — / never lit her tire. But I've done some- 
thing else, ma'am: I've got in my stable the very man which has been, 
ma'am, annoying us so long." 

" Is it possible? Have you really? Is he now in the stable?" 

" Secure, ma'am. I've roped hun regular. He can't get away." 

" Have you locked the door?'* 

" Fast, ma'am. Here's the key. He didn't want Snorter last night. 
No, he only just wanted the pony and gig.'* 

" Well, run to Mr. Rouse with my compliments. Tell him what has 
happened, and beg of him to come as soon as possible." 

Judkins started off at full speed, and in less than five minutes, the 
reverend gentleman was there. 

" My dear sir," said Aimt Eleanor as he entered, " I have the hap- 
piness to inform you, that we have at length discovered — " 

" I know, my dear madam — I know all about it,'* said the reverend 
gentleman, "Judkins, bring him in." 

Judkins disappeared on the instant, and soon re-appeared with his 
prisoner. 

" Now, sir, what's yotir name?" enquired the reverend gentleman. 

" John Todd," replied the man. 

"John Todd! John Todd I Well, sir, what have you to say to 
this?" 

" All I have to say is, that master found the pony in one of his 
meadows, and hearing that it belonged to this lady, he told me to take 
k home." 

" Your master, sirl-^who is your master?" 

" Squire Lane, yotir reverence." 

" Oh! Squire Lane. John Todd! John Todd! Don't you occupy 
the cottage on the left of his gate, John Todd?" 

" Yes, your reverence." 

" There has been some mistake here, my dear madam," said the reve- 
rend gentleman, aside. " John Todd," he added, turning again to the 
man, " you are a very honest person, John Todd. I recollect you. 
Give my compliments to your master, and tell him that I will do my- 
self the pleasiu-e of calling upon him in the course of the morning. 
There has been some mistake, but never mind what has passed. I here 
present you with half-a-crown for your trouble." 

John did not much like t^e rough treatment he had received, but as 
the half-crown healed every wound that had been inflicted, he respect- 
fully bowed, and in silence withdrew. 

" I know John Todd," observed the reverend gentleman ; " he's a very 
honest man. I have known him for years, and I am perfectly sure 
that he is not at all involved in this mystery." 

" I hope, sir," said Judkins, " that 1 hav'n't in your opinion exceeded 
my duty." 



96 BYLVESTEE SOUND. 

" You acted very correctly, Jiidkins, very correctly," replied the reve- 
rend gentleman. " Iliid I been in your position, I should doubtless have 
acted in precisely the same manner." 

" You see," pursued Judkins, " things happened so rum. One morn- 
ing one tiling, another morning another — as true as I'm alive, sir, if 
you'll believe me, I sometimes don't even so much as know what's what. 
— Now, look here, ma'am," he added, turning to his mistress; "I beg 
pardon, ma'am, for being so bold, ma'am, but jist look here. Here was 
this blessed morning as ever was, ma'am,* when I came down stairs and 
went into the garden, what should I see but my best plants walked 
from the hot-house and sunk into one of the onion beds." 

" What, this morning!" exclaimed Aimt Eleanor. 

" This blessed morning, ma'am — ^there they was." 

" How very extraordinary," said his mistress. 

" Amazing," exclaimed the reverend gentleman. " Were they 
injiu*ed at all?" 

" Not the leasest," replied Judkins ; " least ways they haven't taken 
much harm, except, p'r'aps, they've caught a little cold." 

" But they were placed in the bed carefully?" 

"Very. There wasn't a branch broke. That's the thing as gets 
over me so much! They seems not to want to hurt nothing: that 
don't seem to be their object, and as that ain't their object, what their 
object is, I can't guess. Sure-/y they might leave the plants alone; 
they can't have offended 'em in any individual way, no how. But that 
ain't all, ma'am. When I was a meditating over them serious, cook 
comes to me, and says, * You've lit vciy fire, and gormandised every 
blessed egg." 

" And you mean to say that you did not light the fire?" enquired his 
mistress, seriously. 

" Never, ma'am. Upon my word and honour, ma'am. I msh I may 
never rear nothing, if I ever touched the fii'e. And, as to the eggs, 
ma'am, why, it stands to reason that I wouldn't think of touching 'em : 
I ain't eat a single ^gg this six months! I don't care a bit about 'em; 
and if I did, it ain't so likely that I'd go and do such a thing as that. 
Not a bit of it, ma'am, if you'll believe me. No: it's them fellows — 
whoever they are — and I on'y jist wish I could catch 'em. However 
they do it, wholly gets over ine. F' instance, how did they get the pony 
and gig out? How could they get 'em out? Wliy, ma'am, I not only 
locked the stable door, and hung the key on the hook in the kitchen, 
but I had a piece of string that reached from that very door to my bed- 
room, and I slept with the other end round my toe, ma'am, all night: 
so, how they got in, I can't tell. It seems to me to be witchcraft, and 
nothing but." 

Aunt Eleanor now very clearly perceived that these tricks were too 
paltry to be for one moment ascribed to the spirit of her brother ; and 
having made up her mind to leave the village for a time, she at once 
resolved on spending a few weeks in London. 



THJB BOWXAUBVUia. 97 



CHAPTER XIV. 

THE DEPASTURE FROM THE VUXAQE. 

Thet who have been unaccustomed to traveli find the job of pre- 
paring to leave home a strong one. However inconsiderable the journey 
may be, or however short the contemplated stay, the preparations which 
they deem essential are great. Much thought is brought to bear upon 
the preliminaries, much time is occupied in canying out the scheme, 
and when that has been perfected and the day of departure arrives, the 
excitement is generally excessive. 

Aunt Eleanor had been unaccustomed to travel: she found the job of 
preparing to leave home a strong job : sJie brought much thought to bear 
directly upon the preliminaries, and occupied much time in perfecting 
the scheme : nor did she expect that on the morning of her departure, 
she should have the slightest appetite for breakfast, for the village 
may be said to have been her world, and if the idea of leaving that 
village did not appear to her like that of leaving the world, her feelings 
bore a very strong affinity to those of persons who are about to visit 
some distant land. 

On the day, however, immediately preceding that appointed for her 
journey to London, other feelings were inspired; for while walking 
alone in her garden, contemplating the change she was about to expe- 
rience, and endeavouring to recollect if anything had been forgotten, 
she saw lying on the table in the arbour, a carefully-folded note, sealed 
with the family crest, and superscribed " Rosalie^ 

"What on earth have we here?" she exclaimed, as she tiuned 
the note over and over again. " The hand- writing resembles that of 
Sylvester! — ^yet surely it cannot be his! Rosalie ! — ^Dear me, what can 
it mean? Hosalie ! — How very mysterious." 

While anxiously dwelling upon this little incident, and considering 
what course she could with propriety pursue, her reverend friend 
entered the garden, and when they had greeted each other with their 
accustomed cordiality, she explained to him how she had foimd the 
note, and then proceeded to solicit his advice. 

" It's very odd," said the reverend gentleman, "very odd; nay, it's 
remarkably odd. But let us go in, and see what we can make of it." 

Into the house they accordingly went, and when they were seated, the 
reverend gentleman took the note, and having looked very severely at 
the superscription and the seal, turned it over and over and over again, 
with an expression of intense curiosity. 

"Well," said he, at length, " let us look at the contents." 

" Will it be correct,*' said Aunt Eleanor, " to open it?" 

" Perfectly so, my dear madam!— of course 1" 

H 



98 8fLYE8TBB tOTJirD 

" It is not addressed to either of us." 

" But it is the hand-writing of Sylvester!" 

" I think it is. It looks very much like his hand-writing. But I am 
not sure." 

" Oh, it's certain to be his; and if evw it be not, you have an indis- 
putable ri^ht to examine it, seeing that it was found on your premises, 
addressed to a person of whom you have no knowledge ; but as it most 
surely is his, you have a double right to examine it, inasmuch as he is 
here under your especial care.** 

" But I should not like to wound his feelings." 

"For that I would submit there is no necessity whatever. The 
thing may be concealed. He need not know that we have opened the 
note ; he need not even know that you found it. The young rogue may 
have fallen in love. Who can tell? He may be the intended victim of 
some artful creature, whose object is to ensnare him. Who knows? 
We have heard of such things, and it hence becomes oiu* duty to pro- 
tect him; — ^we must put him on his guard, and not allow hun to be 
sacrificed." 

" Very true, my dear sir," said Aunt Eleanor, smiling ; " I fully appre- 
ciate all that you have said, but would it not be equally effective if I 
were to have him in, and give him the note as it is?'' 

" As you please, my dear madam. I of course cannot presume to 
have any direct voice in the matter." 

" But do you not think that it would be equally effective?" 

" Perhaps it might. Oh! yes. We shall be able to see the changes of 
his coimtenance, and from those changes to draw inferences which may 
enable us to arrive pretty nearly at the truth. Oh! yes; I can see no 
objection whatever to his being called in." 

Aunt Eleanor then rang the bell, and directed the servant to tell 
Sylvester, who was in the library, that she wished to speak with him 
for a moment. 

" The name puzzles me," resimied the reverend gentleman. " I can- 
not imagine who Rosalie is! I have baptized all the young persons in 
the village, but I do not remember the name of Rosalie! Rosalie! — 
Rosalie! Bless my life and soul, the name of Rosalie doesn't occur to 
me at all." 

"My dear," said Aunt Eleanor, as Sylvester entered, "who is 
RosaHe?" 

" I don't know, I'm sure, aunt, who Rosalie is. Rosalie, I presume 
is the name of a young lady, and a very pretty name she has got, but 
I do not remember to have met with any one named Rosalie. Who is 
she?" 

" Nay, my dear, I wish to know from you who she is. I have not 
the pleasure of knowing the lady myself." 

" Nor have I," return^ Sylvester. But why do you ask me about her?" 

" This note, my dear, I found in the arbour just now. It is your 
hand-writing, my love, is it not?" 

"It looks very much like it. Rosalie I What is it all about?" he 
added, breaking the seal:*- 



THE S0MXAMBULI8T. 99 

* Beautiful Rosalie^ 

* Meet me to night. 

* Do not fail, Rosalie! Sweet! do not fail!* 

" Well/* he continued, " this is extraordinary. The ^vriting is exactly 
like mine. I never saw two hands so much alike. Look.'' 
" It is, indeed, like yours, my dear," said Aunt Eleanor. 
" Exactly," cried Sylvester, who felt much amazed. " I'll just copy 
it, and then you will see the resemblance more clearly. — Beautiful 
Sylvester," he added, copying the note. " No, no, * Beaut&d Sylvester' 
\nll not do at all." 

"Beautiful Rosalie, 
" Meet me to night. 
" Do not fail, Rosalie ! Sweet! do not fail !" 

" There," he continued, having finished the transcript; " look at this, 
and then look at that." 

"I cannot distinguish the slightest difference between them," said 
Aunt Eleanor. 

" Nor can I," returned Sylvester. " See," he added, placing both the 
copy and the original before the reverend gentleman, who had been 
watching him with unexampled subtlety. " See, what an extraordinary 
resemblance there is." 

"Resemblance!" echoed the reverend gentleman, who couldn't at all 
understand this coolness. "They are both alike! The B's are the 
same, and the R's are the same, and so are the M's, D's, and S*s. I can 
see no difference at all. If I fold this as that has been folded, I'll defy 
sLoj man alive to tell which is which." 

" Try it," said Sylvester. " Fold it in precisely the same manner, 
and then let us have a look at them." 

The reverend gentleman gazed at him for a moment with an expres- 
sion of doubt mingled with amazement, but as Sylvester met his gaze 
firmly, he did fold the copy in precisely the same manner, and having 
done io, exclaimed, "There! Now which is which?" 

" I can see that this is the one which I wrote," returned Sylvester, 
"because the ink is not quite dry, and, therefore, somewhat paler; but 
were it not for that, I should be utterly imable to tell which of the two 
had been written by me." 

" Then you really did not write them both?" 

" Write them both? Certainly not. Of that I know nothing." 

" Then all I can say is, it's very remarkable." 

" It is remarkable. But is it supposed that the note which I have 
copied was written by me?" 

" Why it looked so much like your hand-writing, my dear," said 
Aunt Eleanor, mildly, " that we did think it must have been written by 
you." 

" Then let me, my dear aunt, at once undeceive you. The resem- 
blance which it bears to my hand is very striking; but I assiu-o you — 
I feel that you will believe rae — I assure you, upon my honour, that I 
kuow nothing whatever about it." 

h2 




i]mrt^a_|i^ 



iy/^y///zXjd^J^^ ^m^y c^,^c6€j^/^cr/7'^ 



THE SOKNAMBULIST. 101 

proved — that his cahu declaration having reference to bis entire ignorance 
of Rosalie was false. But then, before this could be proved to the satis- 
faction of any one, and consequently before this touching lecture could be 
deUyered, Rosalie had to be found. The reverend gentleman felt this 
deeply. He had not the slightest doubt that, if he found her, he 
should be able, by an appeal — ^which he had also prepared, and it was 
one of an exceedingly powerful natiutj — ^to induce her at once to make 
a full confession; but he could not find her! — ^noonc in the village knew 
aa3rthiDg of her;— not one had ever heard of the name of Rosalie 
be£>re. They all knew a multitude of Maries, and all admitted that 
Rosalie was a much sweeter name — ^more melodious in soimd, and in 
eflfect more distingue — the matrons of the village were especially 
delighted with it, and made up their minds with the most prompt 
unanimity to have the next girls they had christened Rosalie, and thus 
left no room for the reverend gentleman to doubt that the next genera- 
tion woidd be studded with Rosalies; but this was not the point; his 
oljfject was to discover one then; but as he foimd — after having tra- 
vdled fairly through the village, making all the inquiries which the 
importance of the case demanded — that no Rosalie had ever existed 
there within the memory of the oldest inhabitant — she being a hundred 
and six years of age — ^he gave the thing up, and the consequence was, 
that both the appeal and the lecture were lost. 

These inquiries, however, were not without effect, although they 
failed to accomplish the object proposed. The reverend gentleman had 
omitted of course to explain to them why he sought Rosalie with so 
much diligence ; and this omission, very naturally, and therefore very 
generally, suggested the question, " What he can want with her ?" That 
she had done something wrong was a conclusion which, on being duly 
drawn from the premises, appeared to be rational to all; but then, what 
was that something ? — ^what could it be ? — was it an act of indiscretion 
or something much worse ? They of course couldn't tell: their conjec- 
tures were inniunerable, but as they were at the same time very con- 
flicting, no dependence was placed upon any one of them, until the news 
reached the ears of Mr. Obadiah Drant, who proceeded to settle the 
question at once. 

" ril tell you what it is," said he to Pokey; " I can see clear through 
all the rampant ramifications of this fructi^ong manoeuvre. Look here. 
Old Teddy Rouse wants this girl. Very well. What does he want her 
for ? that's the point at issue ! He's got no wife : he never had a wife. 
Very well then, can't you see? I'll bet you any money you like, that it's 
one of Ted's ladies." 

" But," said Pokey, raising his eyes from his board, and taking snuff, 
" if it is, don't you think he'd know exact where to find her?" 

" Not a bit" of it ! French !— Rosalie !— French, my boy ! It's been 
a French name ever since Peter the Great's time. She's come over to 
find him out — don't you understand? Housekeeper! artful! — Now 
don't you see ? These are your moral men ! — ^these are your saints! 
— ^these are the locusts that suck fifty million a year from the sweat of 
the poor man's brow !— there aint one of the doth that don't ought to 



102 SYLVESTER SOUND 

be smothered. I'd hang, draw, and quarter the lot. What do we want 
a mob of vampires like that for ? I'd send 'em all on board a man-o'- 
war, if I'd my will, and give 'em a good welting four or five times a day, 
and let 'em see how they like that. And it'll come to this at last: 
mark my words if it don't. People's eyes begin to be a little mattel* 
open: they only want to open 'em just a leetle more, and bang comes 
a rattling revolution." 

" Not a bit of it," said Pokey, who always felt indignant when Oba- 
diah spoke of a revolution. " Revolutions is mighty fine things fc* to 
talk about, but we aint going to have 'em. Look at me, for instance. 
Me and my missis has got six-and-twenty pirn ten in'^the savings'-bank 
— ^wouldn't I fight till I dropped before I'd lose that six-and-twenty pim 
ten, think you ? And how many thousands of men is there in the very 
same perdicament ?" 

"Fight till you dix)pped, fbi* six-and-twenty pun tenl" retorted Obtt- 
diah, sneeringly. "What's six-and-twenty pun ten ? 

" As much to me as six-and-twenty thousand pun ten is to any of 
your dukes, lords, and bishops." 

" Why you aint got a mite of patriotic spirit in you I" 

" I aint agoing to let any patriotic spirit do me out of my money." 

" Do you out of your money! Vm ashamed of you. Pokey. A man 
of your intellects, too!" 

" I don't care : intellects in this world aint of much use to a man 
without money." 

" Then you think that such locusts as Teddy Rouse ought to be 
allowed to do just as they please." 

"No, I don't." 

" And you'd pay 'em elevenpence-halfpenny out of every blessed shil- 
ling you earn, that they might have their French Rosalies ?" 

"No, I wouldn't." 

'** You wouldn't ! Why look at Teddy Rouse. He's a sample of the 
sack. He must have his Rosalie, and where will you go to find one 
that hasn't hisn? Look at the thing logically-^not through the short- 
sighted spectacles which always bring in view yoiu- six-and-twenty pun 
ten, but logically — ^" 

" It'll take a lot of logic to convince me that 1 should be a better man 
without that six-and-twenty pun ten than I am with it." 

" Well, but listen. You don't at all like these locusts. Veiy good! 
You don't at all like the idea of a revolution. Grood again!*— But if 
it's impossible to get rid of 'em without a revolutioUj what do you say 
then?" 

" Why, rather than staiid and see my mohey serftfiibled for, send I 
may live, I'd fight tiU I dropped." 

" Then you're a Tory. I know you*re a Tory. Yott've nd rigbt to 
Vote for the yellows at aU." 

" HavenH I no right to vote for the yellows ! My father was a 
yellow, and he brought me Up a yellow; and if ever you catch mt 
changing my colour, expect to catch a fox asleep* If I had no money, 
I shouldn't clkre a button about a revolution: a revolution Qxm wouldn't 



THE SOKNAMBULIflT. 108 

matter at all to me; but as I have money, and can't draw it without 
notice, blister me if ever I'll vote for revolution!'' 

" Vm disgusted with you, Pokey !" exclaimed Obadiah. " You ought 
to be on Bobby Peel's side of the house. It's such sentiments as these 
that have drawn a matter of eighteen himdred million a year from our 
vitals." 

" I vrouldn't draw nothing from nobody's vitals." 

"Then why do you sanction such men as Teddy Rouse? Why, 
when you see him running after his girls, don't you set your face against 
him? Suppose you were the father of this girl— this Rosalie— >wou]d 
you like it?" 

«Idon*tsayIshouldl" 

" Very well, then. I mean to say it's monstrous that we should pay 
fifty million a year to enable these men to run after their Rosalies, aa 
old Ted^ Rouse has been running after his. Don't tell me about the 
dothl The cloth's rotten, and always was. Even before the Pope was 
welted at the battle of Bunker's Hill, they were both corrupt and cle- 
rical, and anything that's clerical must of course be rotten. Look at 
Russia, look at Prussia, look at China, look at Spain, look at France, 
look at Switzerland, look where you will,, they're all alike, all corrupt, 
all rotten, all bad. I mean to say we must have a rattling revolution 
in order to keep society together: we must have a regular roaring 
rebellion, in order to keep us from anarchy and ruin. Are we to have 
a parcel of oligarchies, think you, squeezing the marrow out of our very 
bones eternally ? Do you think that this can be eternally tolerated ? 
No ! — not a bit of it. No ! — they must come down I — and, mark my 
words, when they do come down, they'll come down with a run. All 
your six-and-twenty-pun-ten men in the universe won't save 'em : come 
down they must and will ! — ^Mark my words. You may try to keep 
such men as Teddy Rouse on— you may encourage *em in running 
about after their Rosalies—" 

"I don't encourage 'em in nothing of the sortl" 

" Then why don't you stand up against 'em like a man ? Shall we 
wink at such practices as these, when they^come directly imder our very 
noses? 

" But / don't know nothing about practices. Look here !— this Ro- 
salie !— what do I know about her ? — ^hoW do I know that there's any- 
thing wrong ? — ^who is she ? — ^what's her business ?— where does she 
come from ? 

" Didn't I tell you, France? She's one of the French dancers, no 
doubt. And as for not knowing whether there's anything wrong! 
Look here I Suppose you were to run about the village inquiring for 
Rosalie or Rosamond, or any other girl, what would Mrs. Pokey say ?" 

" Why, I don't suppose she'd like it." 

" Very well, then. Doesn't that make the case deal* ? But I'll find 
this Rosalie out ! — ^I'U run her downl-^I'll pretty soon know who she 
isl Master Ted shan't be let off so easy as m has been. I'll stick to 
hiiti««-ril show him]up !-^But ta-ta 1 can't 8top*-i»Miad yoa take cdr^ of 
your six-and-twenty pnn ten!" 



104 atLVESYES 80fJKI> 

" I means it," said Pokey. 

" But, mark my words, my boy, it aint your six-and-twenty pun ten 
that'll save this mighty country from a rattling revolution!" 

Having in a strictly confidential tone given emphatic utterance to this 
singular sentiment, Obadiah gaily left his monied friend, and proceeded to 
congratulate himself on the extraordinary eloquence he had displayed. 

Meanwhile Aunt Eleanor's mind was distressed. To her the note 
addressed to Rosalie had been the source of much pain: not because she 
imagined for one moment that the declaration of Sylvester was false! — 
she felt on the contrary convinced that it was true — ^but because she 
was deeply apprehensive that the note had some mysterious connexion 
with her brother. She knew not why such an apprehension should be 
inspired : with the exception of the fact of the seal having been his, there 
was not the slightest link of connexion between them; still the previously 
conceived possibility of her dear brother's spirit having been perturbed, 
had created this feeling of apprehension of which her mind could not be 
divested. 

This, however, was not allowed to alter her plans having reference to 
her journey to London on the morrow. Upon this she had decided : 
all her arrangements had been made, and when the reverend gentleman 
— ^who spent the evening with them, and endeavoured to cheer them by 
a facetious description of that which he held to be the salubrious qua- 
lities of London smoke — ^had taken his leave, she and Sylvester calmly 
retired to rest. 

During that night no voices were heard. The cottage itself seemed 
fast asleep, and the tumip-tops nodded and nodded imtil they developed 
the strong diagnosis of dreaming: the shrubbery was hushed, and the 
carrots were stiU, and while the caterpillars ceased to work their inte- 
resting eyelet-holes, not only in the cabbage sprouts, but in the silent 
leaves of the savoys ; the stony-hearted urns, which stood like sentinels 
at the gate, issued no sort of sound, which was very remarkable — ^very! 
— ^and as these things don't occur every night in the week they ought 
to be nicely described. 

This general tranquillity throughout the night was appreciated, and 
when cook in the morning came down and saw everything aroimd her 
precisely as she had left it, she began to congratulate herself on the 
prospect of a total cessation of that state of things by which she and the 
rest had been so long annoyed. 

On proceeding, however, to light the kitchen fire, she found that the 
chimney wouldn't draw. This at first she ascribed to a change of the 
wind. The wood burned weU, and there was plenty of it; but the 
smoke curled into the kitchen in volumes ! She opened the door that 
the draught might be stronger, but the smoke became every moment 
more dense. She looked at the vane : the wind was south-west : the 
place had never smoked before when the wind was south-west! — ^nor 
did she believe that the chimney was foul. 

" Hallo !" shouted Judkins, as the waves of smoke rolled into his 
chamber, " What are you at ? Do you want to choke a fellow ? What 
are you up to? CookP 




.% -a/^^-^- 



THE SOMNAXBUUST. 105 

" Come do¥m!" cried cook, who kept outside the door. 

" What's the matter V" demanded Judkins on opening the window. 
'' Is the house on fire ?*' 

'' No! but the chhnney's smoking awiul! Come down.*' 

Judkins left the window, and descended the stairs ; but the moment 
he opened the door which led immediately into the kitchen, he was met 
by a dense mass of smoke which almost caused him to fall backwards. 
His presence of mind only saved him. Suffocated as he felt — op- 
pressed as he was— -he rushed through the kitchen with all the energy 
at his command, and on reaching the garden, began to cough with un- 
precedented power and zeaL 

" What— Ho, o-ho, o-ho !" he cried, " What devils— ho, o— Uick is this V" 

" Gome and put a stop to it!" said cook, with great severity. "Don't 
stand rolling about and barking there Hke a bom fool I" 

Judkins would have said that she was a nice woman, but couldn't. 
He kept on coughing like a frightfully-asthmatic individual, and conti- 
nued to cough as if he had been thus afflicted, despite the hot remon- 
strances of cook, who did really indulge on this occasion in many un- 
ladylike expressions of disgust. 

la. the meantime the density of the smoke so much increased that it 
drove cook fiercely from the door; and when Judkins with coughing 
felt utterly exhausted, he managed to turn a tub upside down, with the 
view of taking a seat, but in his agony he came down upon it such a 
lump that he broke in the bottom, and there he stuck. 

Cook was now ferocious. Her rage knew no bounds. She shook 
her fists fiercely, and threatened to claw the eyes out of the precious 
head of Judkins, who had not the slightest power to extricate himself, 
and whose spirit of independence was too noble, too pure, to allow him 
to solicit her assistance. 

" What do you mean T* she exclaimed, when the scum of her rage 
had boiled over. "What is it you mean? This is not a trick of 
yours ! — Oh! no: it isn't your trick !" 

" My trick !" said Judkins, as well as he could. " Woman! you're 
a lunatic. I've told you so before." 

"Don't provoke me I" she exclaimed, as her passion increased; "you'd 
better not provoke me ! " 

And Judkins too thought that this would not be advisable, seeing 
that she had all the power then in her own hands ; and being thus fixed, 
he felt that, if she were to attack him, however fiercely, he couldn't help 
it; he couldnt defend himself; he couldn't get away. 

" Call me a lunatic again, at your peril I" she continued, coming 
conveniently near to the tub. " Dare to call me a lunatic again, and I'll 
make you remember it the longest day you have to live. Now call me 
a lunatic again, if you dare !" 

Judkins did not dare to do anything of the sort. He had to use his 
own discretion, and that discretion prompted silence ; but just as he had 
recovered sufficient strength to make an effort to relieve himself, Mary — 
who, finding that she could not enter the kitchen, had opened the front 
door and come round the cottage— appeared, when Judkins, who wae 



106 8TLVSBTSR SOUKD 

very glad to see her, said, "Polly, my girl, help me out of this 
pickle." 

" Don't touch him," cried cook. 

" Fm sure, I shaU 1" returned Mary, " Why shouldn't I ?" 

" He has been the cause of all !'' replied cook. 

" Don't you mind her," said Judkins. " There, put your foot against 
the tub and take hold of my hands 1" 

Mary did so, and pulled him fairly up, and the tub rose with him; 
but he soon discarded that, and when he found himself free, he went 
boldly up to cook and asked her what she really meant. 

" What do I mean," replied cook, who was, imder present circum- 
stances, somewhat mote cautious; "why, iMs is what I mean — ^I 
mean to say that you or somebody else has been stuiffiing up my 
chimney." 

" Stufling up your chimney I" l^torted Judkins. " Why jrou aint fit 
to live on a civilized scale. You took advantage of my position in so- 
ciety just now ; but I tell you again and again you're a lunatic, and 
don't ought to breathe the same air as a Christian. Stop up your chim- 
ney ! Why don't you go then and onstop it ?" 

" Cause, I don't want to be choked,'* replied cook. 

" Choked I" echoed Judkins ; " if you was choked, it would in my 
mind be a blessing." And he tried to tub his blade bones, but couldn't 
get near them, which was lamentable, seeing that they were painful in 
the extreme, for as they couldn't yield to the edge of the tub, and as 
the edge of the tub wouldn't yield an inch to them, the pressure had 
really been very severe. 

" Well," said Mary, " what's to be done? Missis won't be long now 
afore she's up, and if she comes down and finds no breakfast ready for 
her, she won't be best pleased." 

" Pleased ! no more she don't ought," returned cook. " The very 
morning too she's going up to London. Do you think that Td have 
such people about me? You'd better go round and light a fire in the 
parlour, and bile the kettle there. There's no chance of it's ever being 
biled in the kitchen. Did you ever see,'* she added, pointing fiercely to 
the smoke which still continued to rush in volumes into the garden. 
" I shall have a pretty job after this. Every individual thing in the 
place will be smothered. But go, Mal-y, go and light a fire in the 
parlour." 

And Mary for that purpose did go ; and while cook was earnestly 
contemplating the smoke which, as the flames had expired, grew less 
and less dense, the unhappy man Judkins was silently invoking that 
spirit of ingenuity which he felt he had in him, with the view of re- 
placing the Dottom of the tub. 

Scarcely, however, had he arrived at the conclusion that, if he could 
get it into the groove again it would hold, when Mary came rushing 
round the cottage, exclaiming, " It's just the same! they're sdl alike 1 the 
parlout^s chock ftdl of one soUd mask of smoke." 

"What,** cried cook, glancing at Judkins signifioantlyi "hAs he 
stuffed up the parlour chimney too?" 



THE BOKKAHBULIflT. 107 

" I wish your month was stufied up," observed Judkins, with asperity, 
" that would be a comfort to all mankind. The devil's in the chim- 
nies, that's my belief," he added; and just as he had finished this 
remarkable sentence, their mistress's bell rung violently. 

" There!" cried cook, " now we shall just see who's right and who's 
wrong. Ckmie £dong, Mary; we'll both go up to nrissis together." 

" And if you say any thing about me," said Judkins, " I'll let you 
know the difference." 

" I shan't mince the matter a mite," retorted cook. 

" No, I know you won't," said Judkins. " If ever there lOas a imp, 
she's one," he added, as cook and Mary went round to answer the bell. 
But before they reached the chamber, their mistress met them, for as 
the parlour chimney communicated with the one in her room, the smoke 
which issued from it had driven her out. 

" What on earth is the matter?" she demanded. " Where does all this 
smoke come from?" 

" The chimney,'* said cook. 

" Is the chinmey on fire?" 

" No ; it's stuffed up with something, ma'am." 

" Send for the sweep instantly ! Don't lose a moment. Tell Judkins 
to make the utmost haste. Good gracious me," she continued, knocking 
at Sylvester's door, as Mary ran down stairs to send Judkins off for the 
village sweep, " Sylvester, my love!" she added, knocking still louder. 
" Oreat heavens !^-Sylvester! — Sylvester! — come to the door." 

" Is that youy aunt?" he cried ; and on hearing his voice, she clasped 
her hands, and fervently thanked heaven that he was safe. 

" What is the matter?" he inquired on opening the door. 

His aUnt fell upon his neck, and could not for a moment answer. 

" What is it?— what has happened?" again he demanded. 

" Nothing, my love," she replied, " nothing of importance. I feared 
that you had been overpowered by the smoke." 

"What, is there a fire?" 

" No, no, no— no, my love — ^no! The chimney's out of order— yes 
—the chimney's out of ordep*-^nothing more." 

" Then why do you tremble so?" 

" Do I tremble now? I thought the smoke might have I'eached your 
room." 

" No, I've had no smoke here. I smell it now strongly. But come, 
come! Dear auAt, you will cause me to think that something more 
has occurred." 

" No, no^-4iothing more— nothing more*— believe me." 

** Then compose yourself: come!— the smoke will very soon evaporate. 
I'll just slip my things on: I'll not be a moment." 

Aunt Eleanor then descended with Mary, and on going into the par- 
louT) in which no attempt to light a fire had been made, she examined 
the chimney, and being unable to see anything in it, at once directed 
that to be tried. 

And it was tried, And, lot the result was the dame: they were cctn- 
pdlod to leate the toom to escape sufiboation. 



lOd 8ttV£8t£B SOUNl> 

" How very extraordinary/' exclaimed Aunt Eleanor. " It cannot be 
the wind." 

She opened the front door; and as she did so, Judkins appeared with 
the sweep— a respectable and highly intelligent individual, who had 
been in practice more than half a century. 

*' I am glad that you are come," said Aunt Eleanor; " our chimnies 
are sadly out of order." 

" It theemth ath though they voth," observed Chokes, who was blessed 
with a lisp of incomparable sweetness. " And yet it ithn't vethy long 
thinth they voth done. Vith one ith the vortht mum?" 

" They appear to be all alike." 

" Then there mutht be thomethin wrong. But vith do you vont firtht." 

" The kitchen perhaps had better be done first." 

" Vethy good." 

'' But be as quick as possible, there's a good man." 

To the kitchen Chokes accordingly proceeded with Judkins, and 
found it comparatively clear, and whde he was examining the chimney, 
Aunt Eleanor went into Sylvester's room, the only room in the house 
which was then free from smoke. 

" Vy there ithn't muth thut in thith thimbly," cried Chokes. " There 
theemth to be nothin amith vith thith." 

*' There must be 8(miething amiss with it," cried cook; "that's all 
nonsense." 

Chokes would have bulged of her to allow him to know his own busi- 
ness, but as he had no desire to be discourteous, he merely looked as if 
he meant it. 

" I thay," said he, " there ithn't thut enough in thith thimbley to 
make it thmoke. But I like to go about thingth thilent and plulle- 
thophical. How did the thmoke come down? all of a heap?" 

" It come down in one mask," replied cook. 

" I thee," said Chokes, with intelligence beaming in his eye. " Vethy 
good, then there muth in that cathe be thomethin amith with the 
pot." 

He then walked with all his characteristic coolness into the garden, 
and having stationed himself tranquilly, perceived that every pot had 
been covered with a sack. 

"There it ith," said he, waving his hand gracefully; "thatth the 
thtate of thingth." 

" Why blarm their carcasses!" cried Judkins. " What'll they be up to 
next, I wonder ! Now, who could have done this?" 

" Who !" echoed cook, with a significant glance at Judkins. " You 
ask who! I could ffuessT she added, emphatically. "Oh I I could 
guess !" 

" Why you don't mean to gtiess that I did it, do you?" 

" Them sacks there couldn't have been put upon them pots without 
hands!" 

" Thatth vethy clear," said Chokes. 

" Clear ! — it ie clear I — and missis shall know of it this moment !" 

" Go away, woman," said Judkins, 9everely, as cook rushed in to tell 



THE SOMVAKBUUaT. 109 

her mistress all about it. '^ She's a imp, that woman is— a out-and-out 
imp." 

"Yot Fm thinkin of," said Chokes, having surveyed the cottage 
calmly, '' ith thith: how did they get up to them there poth? Have 
you a ladder about the premithelh?" 

^ A small un: it'll r^ch up as high as my window there.** 

"Thatthofnouthe." 

<^ Couldn't ihey get up that gutter?" said Judkins, alluding to a 
wooden pipe which reached from the roof to the water butt. 

" Vy," replied Chokes, " if they didn't, I don't thee how they got up 
at all ! But there ithn't more than room enough there for a cat I A 
man would break his blethed neck if he attempted to valk up there. 
I'd back my boy againtht the univerth for climbing, but he couldn't get 
up there! — a reg'lax rope-danther couldn't do it." 

" Well, it's quite clear they got up somehow." 

" Yeth, thatth vethy clear." 

'^ And as missis is going to London to-day, the sooner we get them 
there sacks off the better." 

" Vethy good. Ve mutht have a long ladder to do it. Whoth got 
one?" 

" I don't know exactly: let's go and inquire." 

They accordingly started, and while they were absent, cook was en- 
deavouring to impress upon her mistress the probability of Judkins 
being in this case the delinquent. But her mistress would not for a 
moment hear of even its possibility. '' I do not," she said, at length, 
"believe a word of it, cook: nor have you any reason to believe it. I 
know that you and Judkins are not Mends, and if I find on my return 
that you are not more friendly, you must be separated. Judkins I be- 
heve to be a most faithful servant, and I would not part with him on 
any slight grounds." 

Cook wept at the prospect which opened before her. She was deeply 
attached to her mistress — ^it may be said that she loved her — ^and would 
not on any account have left her voluntarily — except indeed to be mar- 
ried. This address therefore made a deep impression on her mind, 
and caused her to reflect upon the expediency of reforming that infirmity 
of temper of which every one complained. 

Judldns and Chokes now returned with a ladder — ^the only one in 
the village that could reach the roof, and one which had been locked 
up for months — and when they had succeeded in raising it. Chokes 
ascended with admirable presence of mind, and having philosophically 
taken off the sacks, the fires when lighted burned freely again. 

"Mr. Chokes," said cook, when all this had been accomplished, 
" you'll have a glass of ale ?" 

" If you pleaSie," rephed Chokes. 

" You'U have a glass, Judkins ?" 

Judkins was startled I He felt quite amazed ! The idea of her ask- 
ing him to have a glass of ale, after what had occurred, so upset his 
faculties for the moment, that he seemed to have been deprived of the 
power of speech! She waited not, however, for his answer: she went 



110 ffLVltnR •OUHD 

at onoe imd drew the ale, and absolutely placed two glaages before 
them! 

This was touching. Judkins couldn't stand it. He looked at her 
for a moment, as if to be sure that he had made no mistake in the person, 
and then said '^ Give us your hand, old girl. I don't think at all times 
you mean what you say, but don't let's have these here kicks up. Let's 
be comfortable together. Why shouldn't we be? We've got a good 
missis, and if we aint happy it's all our own fault. There, give us your 
hand, and let's have no more quarrelling." 

Cook gave her hand freely, and then lefl the kitchen; and when the 
faculties of Judkins were sufficiently restored, he proceeded to explain 
to Chokes precisely how the smoke had attacked hun. 

" Jutht tiio,'* observed Chokes, when ail had been described ; <* vethy 
true ! But lithen ! I've been in thith profethion now more than Msy 
yearth, and I flatter mythelf I know thomethin about it. Now, ven you 
found the thmoke tho thick in the kitchen, inthead of dathin through it 
ath you did, and thuth takin away all your blethed breath, you thould 
have dropped down inthantly upon your handth and kneeth, and then 
you voxddn't have had any tlunoke at alL I'll tell you vy : Thmoke hath 
got ath muth natur about it ath we have, and knowth ath veil vot itth 
about. Itth the natur of thmoke to go up the thimbley, and up the 
thimbley ven it can it viU go, and not give no trouble to nobody; but if 
tho be it can't go up the thunbley, then it vill go vere it can, but alvayth 
up if it can. Now, thmoke vai^ freth air. It'll alvayth go into freth 
air if it can. Vethy good. But if it can't it'll thill go up nevertheleth. 
Now lithen. If a room ith vethy hot, itth muth hotter at top than at 
bottom — that ith to thay, itth hotter near the theelin than it ith near the 
floor. If a room hath been heated by gath, you'll find, if you hang up 
your glath near the theelin, and then let it thtand for a time on the 
ground, it'll vathy from fifteen to twenty degreethl Vethy good. And 
egthactly the same ith it vith the philothophy of thmoke, ven a room 
im frdl of it. Near the theelin you can't breathe ; it would thufibcate 
the devil : but near the floor you'll find ireth air, upon vitch the thmoke 
theemth to thwim." 

" There's a good deal in what you say, no doubt," said Judkins, 
'* but if the smoke will if it can have fresh air, why don't it go down 
where the fresh air is?" 

" Tho it would, if there voth enough of it I But it beginth at the 
top: it vill, aji I tliaid, keep up if it can, and itth vethy theldom found 
that a room ith tho frdl that thereth no fi^h air at all below. The 
freth air trietb to forth the thmoke out! — ^if it can, it vill: if it can't, it 
can't. Neverthdeth, alvath ven a room ith frdl of thmoke-^you know 
vot I mean by thaying frill? — ^I don't, you know, mean philothophically 
frill ! — ^alwayth crawl handth and kneeth upon the floor.'* 

" Well, I dare say you're right about that," said Judkins ; " and if 
you are it's a thing worth knowing." 

" I know that I'm right," returned Chokes; "I know by ecthperienth, 
and ecthperienth teatheth vunderth. I've thaved in my time many a 
baby in that vay. In the cathe of a houthe on fire, ven I've found a 



THE SOMNAMBULIST. Ill 

room tho fiill of thmoke that nobody would go near it, while the mother 
voth a thriekin about her babyth that votli in that room, I've crawled 
philothophically in on my handth and kneeth, and having pulled 'em 
out of bed, brought *em to her unhurt! Many a time IVe done thith, 
and ven the mother hath bletb^ we and thrieked for joy, IVe felt ath 
a man aught to feel! — ^tho I know what it ithl" 

Judkins was interested. He felt that he had a veiy great respect for 
this man: he moreover felt that Nature's God inspired even the bosom 
of a sweep 1 

Ghokef, however, although a philosopher, was yet a man of business, 
and as he had an engagement that morning to cure a couple of chimnies 
in the vicinity, he rose, when he had finished his ale, to take leave, and 
as he did so, Judkins grasped him cordially by the hand, in the perfect 
conviction that he was a man 1 

By this time every thing necessary had been prepared, and Sylvester 
sat down to breakfast wit£ his aunt, who — ^although feeling of course 
that these things were extremely tiresome — ^was comparatively happy, 
for the very absurd nature of the last annoyance had had the effect of 
again removing that fearful impression which the idea of these myste- 
rious occurrences having some remote connexion with her brother's 
spirit had created. 

But Sylvester-^if the term may be applied to any feeling either in- 
spired or developed by one so tranquil— was deeply mdignant. He felt 
that his aimt ought at once to offer a reward for the apprehension 
of these people, and declared, upon his honour, that if he were a magis> 
trate, he would, in the event of their being apprehended, punish them 
severely. He was unconscious of the spirit having appeared to the 
reverend gentleman and Jones — that had been studiously concealed 
from him by his aimt, lest the knowledge of the fa<5t might alarm him 
-«-and as he viewed all the ghost stories of the village, not indeed as 
idle tales, but as tales induced by the tricks of the same idle persons as 
those by whom his aunt had been annoyed; he did think that the 
career of these persons should be checked, and that they should at once 
be punished wifii the utmost rigour of the law. 

The time fixed for their departure now arrived, and their reverend 
friend, who had kindly offered to drive them to the coach, appeared in' 
his phaeton at the gate. The trunks were then adjusted, and when 
Sylvester and his aunt had taken leave of the servants, they left the 
village with the blessings of all who saw them start. On the way, the 
reverend gentleman learned from Sylvester the substance of all that had 
happened that morning; but although he felt vexed, and would have 
given, at any other time, full expression to that feeling, he thought 
more— much more than he deemed it, imder the circumstances, wise to 
declare. He was in fact almost silent on the subject, and endeavoured 
to direct their thoughts to the scenes which they would witness in 
London; and when they had met the coach at the point proposed, and 
he had handed them safely in, he gaily, yet affectionately, bade them 
adieu, and with many warm expressions of high consideration, they 
startsd^ 



112 STtVESTEB BOVKV 



CHAPTER XV. 

STLYESTER'8 first night in LONDON. 

London ! How many bosoms have swelled with rapture, how 
many cheeks have blushed for shame, how many hearts have been 
filled with joy, and how many have sunk in despair, at the sound 
of the magic name of London ! London ! — ^Well ! there's no doubt 
that London is the Heart of the World — ^that its provinces are its arte- 
ries — that the issue of its ventricles gives the prevalent tone throughout 
Europe, Asia, AMca, and America; and that therefore the pulse of the 
world is influenced, if not indeed governed, by its action. But viewed 
as it is, without reference to its external influences, what a mass of all 
that is vicious and virtuous — ^pleasing and repulsive — horrible and ho- 
nourable—profligate and pious — ^beautiM and brutal — ^philanthropic 
and ferocious — artful and amiable — ^tjrrannous and slavish — sceptical 
and credulous — solemn and absurd — ^profound and superficial— -corrupt 
and correct*-<onvivial and cold — ^impudent and diffident— -subtle and 
soft — atrocious and true— cruel and confiding — ^sincere and satanic — 
benevolent and heartless — courteous and crafty— courageous and craven 
—obsequious and despotic — ^voluptuous and virginal — ^venerable and 
contemptible— in fine, what a mass — ^what a chaotic mass— of all that 
is good and bad — admirable and abominable — ^with all the varied shades 
which intervene — does this " mighty heart" of London present! 

Nor is it the Heart of the World only! — ^it is a world of itself— a 
world in which aU existing feelings, motives, passions, and propensities, 
are to be found in perfection developed. To know London well is to 
know the world; and, albeit there are thousands of Londoners who 
never travelled ten miles from London in their lives, and who, notwith- 
standing, know but little of it — a London man strictly is a man of the 
world. 

The first appearance too, of London, strikes a stranger with amaze- 
ment, let him enter at which point he may; and more especially efiective 
is it if he should enter in the evening. It was evening when Sylvester 
arrived, and as he entered at the east, and had to go by the coach as 
far west as Charing-cross, the blaze of light by which he was dazzled, 
the noise of the various vehicles by which he was deafened, the mag- 
nificent shops which he beheld, with the myriads of human beings 
streaming on either side as he advanced, had the efiect of inspiring him 
with wonder. Where could these people be driving to ? What object 
had they in view ? Upon these questions, when they suggested them- 
selves, he had not time to dwell. The motives by which they were 
actuated were as various as their forms: misery, hope, joy, pride, vanity, 
crime, love, relaxation and revenge, respectively impelled them on: but 



THE eK>MNAMBULIi(T. 113 

of this he knew nothing. The merchant who had just achieved a great 
commercial swindle which would stamp him a good man for life — the 
penny-a-liner, who had been walking all day, sustained only by the hope of 
an accident, praying that some important ptTsouage might fall and break 
his neck, that some murder might be counnitted 1)eibrc his eyes, or that 
some destmetive fire might burst out as he passed, and tlnis enable him 
to dine on the morrow — ^the clerk who had just given notice to leave, in 
the full conviction that his " firm" could not get on witliout him ; a mis- 
take of which he would have the proof practically soon — ^the tradesman 
who had a bill for forty pounds due on the morrow, and had not 
forty shillings to meet it — ^thc little master manufacturer who had been 
running after money all day and couldn't catch it, and who, for the 
sake of being a master, worked twenty houis anxiously out of the 
twenly-four, ^ a far less simi than he might eain by working ten hours, 
without this anxiety, as a journe3auan — ^the pompous actor — ^the envious 
author — the heartless lawyer — ^the accomplished thief — ^the unprincipled 
gambler— 4he subtle, smirking, over-reaching publisher — ^the gaudy 
cyprian and the haggard milliner — ^the poor but honest man and the 
highly respectable, because wealthy, rogue — passed on alike: for Syl- 
vester viewed them only in the mass, without reference to their virtues, 
their vices, or their cares. 

On the arrival of the coach at Charing-cross, Sylvester and his aunt 
were met by Dr. Delolme, who had been a most intimate friend of Dr. 
Sound, and at whose house, during their stay in town, they were to 
reside; and when he had received them with the warmest expressions of 
unfeigned pleasure, he had their luggage pointed out to his servant, who 
was directed to bring it afler them in a hackney-coach, and tlien led 
them to his carriage, and gave the word " home." 

Dr. Delolme was one of the most accomplished men of the age. He 
was not, in a strictly professional sense, one of the most profound, 
albeit he had far more stuff in him than hundreds who had acquired a 
reputation for profundity : he was a gentleman, a highly accomplished 
gentleman, who repudiated with scorn those fraudulent exhibitions of 
eccentricity by which so many in his profession have been made, and 
who developed his accomplishments only with the view of inspiring 
with hope, emulation, or joy, those who came within the sphere of his 
influence. 

And Mrs. Delolme was highly accomplished too ; but religious enthu- 
siasm .had veiled her accomplishments, and prompted her to assume the 
air and language of a penitent. Her letters were studded with " D. V." 
in parentheses. Deo volente was continually on her hps. She had been 
one of the most lively creatures breathing, and while her elegance and 
amiability had enchanted the circle of which she had long been the 
recognised centre, her moral purity was acknowledged to be as perfect 
as her grace; but since a preacher who had set his whole soul on 
popularity — ^the Rev. Gipps Terre — ^had been the incumbent of the 
parish in which she resided, he, by virtue of acting and preaching for 
points, touching their feelings and blinding their judgment, had cleverly 
£rucceeded iij turning not only her head, but the heads of all the women 

I 



114 SYLVESTER SOUNB. 

in the vicinity to an extent which prompted them to present him, as 
a matter of gratitude, with services of plate and purses of gold. 

Mrs. Delolme, notwithstanding this, received Aunt Eleanor with much 
kindness. There was not, it is true, that warmth in her reception, that 
delightiul cordiality, by which guests are at once inspired with the con- 
viction that their presence is pleasing; still, the reception was kind, and 
as Aunt Eleanor knew of the change which had been wrought, she felt 
herself perfectly at home. 

This, however^ was not the case with Sylvester. He did not feel 
comfortable at all. He admired the doctor — ^he always had admired 
him — he was also much pleased with the doctor's son, Tom — a youth 
about twenty, whom the doctor called Tob, in consequence of Tom hav- 
ing acquired the habit of invariably pronouncing the b for the m, and 
the d for the n — ^but he did not at all admire Mrs. Delolme : he felt 
chilled by her presence; he never did attempt to say much, but her very 
look seemed to forbid him to speak. 

It was therefore with pleasure, when Tom drew him aside and asked 
him if he would like to go out for an hour, that he replied, " I should 
indeed:" and when Tom added, " Take doe dotice, I'll cobbudicate with 
the goverdor," he felt delighted with the prospect of escaping for a time 
from the apparently severe look of Mrs. Delolme. 

" Well," said Tom, embracing the earliest opportunity, " I bust be off 
dow to by lecture, add as Sylvester beads to be a bedical swell too, he 
bay as well cub with be " 

" Are you not too much fatigued, my dear?" suggested Aimt Eleanor. 

" Oh I not at all," replied Sylvester. 

" You will be late," said the doctor, " ^vill you not?" 

" Oh, they dever cobbedce before a quarter or twedty bidites past.*' 

" It is now more than half-past,*' said Mrs. Delolme. " It will there- 
fore be useless for you to go now." 

" Oh! we shall be id tibe to hear the barrow of it." 

" But, my dear, I wish you to remain at home this evening." 

" What for? Do you thidk it likely I shall ever pass? do you thidk 
it possible, if I dod't attedd lectures?'* 

" I offered no opinion on that point, my dear. I merely said that I 
wished you to remain at home this evening." 

"Very well! I shall be plucked! — I see how it will be! — ^I'll bet 
ted to wud that I'b plucked, add if I ab, dod't blabe be." 

" Do you think it necessary for him to go?" inquired Mrs. Delolme of 
the doctor. 

" Why, my dear," he replied, " it certainly is necessary for him to at- 
tend lectures!" 

" Of course it is," interposed Tom. 

" Then I have no desire to interfere." 

Tom winked at Sylvester, in token of his triumph ; and, as Sylvester 
understood it, they rose and left the room. 

" What's the use of our sittidg there?" said Tom, on quitting the 
house. " I see do fud id it, do you?" 

** There is certainly no fm in it," said Sylvester, smiling, 




• '^:«^4^ ^ ^ J^, 



'<«^- 



TH£ SOUNAMBULIST. 115 

"Dot a bitl Add yet tliere they would liave kept us as stiiFas a brace 
of pokers the whole of tlie evedidgl It wod*t do Syl — 1 shall call yt>u 
Syl, the whole of the dabe is too lodg for hul)ad utteradco. It isd't as 
if there was ady thidk goidg forward. If there were, it bight recodcile 
a fellow to hobel But doe busic, doe cards, doe chess, doe backgal)bod, 
doe gabe of ady sort do we ever have there ; so if you expect any fud id 
our crib, you^ll be buch disappoidted/' 

Sylvester never had expected much fun: but he cei*tainly had ex- 
pected more gaiety. He did not, however, allow the absence of it there 
to distress hun. He had quite sufficient to amuse him then. Tlie 
peculiarity of Tom*s pronunciation was amusing, and as Tom was not 
Qontemptible as a humorist, and as he was, moreover, very communi- 
<w^7'ef Sylvester derived during his walk as much amusement as he 
could have desired. 

-i.Tliey now reached the hospital, at the entrance of which groups of 
students were conversing on subjects which were not strictly of a scien- 
tific character. 

" Hollo, Tob," cried one. " Here's Tob Delobe," said another. " Tob's 
always in tibef' exclaimed a third. 

" j^ he at it ?" inquii-ed Tom of one of them. 
. " Yes, but it's dreadfiiUy dry." 

« Dry, is it? Well, thed, lot's go add wet it." 

This suggestion was adopted on the instant by half a dozen of them, 
who followed Tom into a public-house at hand, at the bar of which 
fa6h rf them called for a pot of porter. This order was, however, 
quite unnecessary. The bar-maid knew in a moment what they 
wanted, and, therefore, had they omitted to open their lips, she woidd 
haye counted them and drawn a pot for each. She had had some 
pmotice at the bar, albeit still young and beautiful. She had been en- 
gaged solely as an attraction, and as an attraction she answered the 
purpose of her employer. She had a splendid head of hair, a pair of 
sparkling eyes, and a finely formed animated bust, and while her teeth 
Vfre like pearls, her skin was sofi: and warm and clear. She was 
moreover, elegantly dressed, and displayed a provision of jewellery. 
On almost every finger there were t^vo or three rings, the whole of 
which had been presented to her by students — ^who were all of course 
desperately in love with her, and therefore, if she saw a decent ring 
upon the finger of any one of them, she had but to say, " What a love 
of a ringl*' and it was hers. 

jyexioy'ducks are not at all rare birds in London, and this one has 
been mentioned only in order to show what influence they have over 
the minds of youth. Sylvester, on being appealed to, declared that he 
had never seen so amiable, so elegant a creature: her eyes were so 
fiutcinating, her smile was so lovely, she seemed so delighted with every- 
body and everything, she was so extremely affable, so free, that really 
Sylvester was charmed with her ; but when she placed the pot of beer 
before him, he looked with an expression of amazement at Tom, and 
said," Is this for me?" 

<* Of course it is, by boy !" replied f om, " dridk it up." 

J2 



116 SYLVESTER SOUND 

" I can't," said Sylvester, " you at all events must help me." 

" It's the law id this part of the globe," returned Tom, " that doe 
bad shall dip idto adother bad's pot." 

Well! it' this were the law, it was the law! — ^but Sylvester couldn't 
drink it all, that was quite clear, nor did he conceive it to be improba- 
ble that a shivering wretch, who stood behind him with a single box of 
lucifer-matches in his hand, would object for one moment to violate that 
law. He therefore drank a little of it boldly, and then handed it 
quietly to the match-man behind, who finished it for him in very fine 
style, without taking his lips from the pot. As this had been effected 
unperceived by the rest — ^for they were all the time chattering with and 
ogling the bar-maid — Sylvester thereby acquired the reputation of being 
—although green, palpably green — as good a man as any amongst 
them. 

" Now," said he, when they had emptied their pots, " hadn't we better 
go in?" 

" Id!" returned Tom, " Id where?" 

" Why into the lecture-room." 

" Oh! It's all over by this tibe, or dearly so." 

" Well, but what am I to say if they should ask me about it?" 

" Ah, I udderstadd! I say," he added, turning to the rest, " you are 
goidg to have wud bore fire, I suppose?" 

" Oh, yes," they replied, " of course." 

" Well, I'll dot be a bobedt : I'll cub back agaid. Dow thed, by boy," 
he added, seizing Sylvester's arm, "cub alodg. We'll, just give a 
look id, add th«d you'll be able to say with truth that you have beed 
there." 

They accordingly entered the hospital, and proceeded to the theatre 
in which the lecturer was zealously engaged on some profound demon- 
stration, the nature of which Tom would not stop to hear, but dragged 
Sylvester out as soon as he felt that he had seen quite sufficient of the 
building to give a description of its form. 

" Dow," said Tom, " we'll just go add have wud bore fire, add thed 
it'll be tibe for us to trot hobe agaid.*' 

" I can't drink any more of that porter," said Sylvester. " I have 
already had quite enough of that.*' 

" Well thed, have sobethidg else. I'll tell you what you shall do— 
I'll stadd it: I'll pay the buddy; — call for a bottle of chabpagde. They 
are good fellows, all of 'em — ^regular trubps, add that'll stabp you at 
wodce as wud of us. Here's the buddy," he added, offering him a 
sovereign. 

" No," said Sylvester, " I'll not take yom^ money, I've some of my 
own." 

" Dodsedce!" cried Tom, " I tell you I'll stadd it! — Take the buddy." 

" No, I'll not do that," said Sylvester, " but if you ^vish it, I'll order 
a bottle with pleasure." 

"Very well, by boy; but bark! — ^whed I say * Well, what are you 
goidg to stadd?' you say boldly, * Why let's have a bottle of chabpagde.'" 

This was agreed to before they reached the house, and when they re- 



THE S0MKAMBCLI8T. 117 

^tered, Tom's friends had not only had fresh pots of porter, but had 
mounted cheroots and German pipes. 

" Here he isf' exclaimed one of them. " Now, what do you think of 
it? I knew that Tob wouldn't cut us so.'' 

"Cut youP returned Tom, " Deverl — Dow, I say," he added, turning 
to Sy]ke8ter, " well I — what are you goidg to stadd?" 

" Why, let's have a bottle of champagne," replied Sylvester. 

" Bravo!" exclaimed Tom's friends, " thaCs the sort of stuff after all." 

And the bar-maid — who was continually on the qui vwe^ waited for 
no direct order, but sent into the cellar for half a dozen at once. 

Sylvester had wisely resolved not to touch it, and turning to the 
match-man, who still sat behind him, said, in a whisper, " Do you like 
champagne?" 

"Never tasted none your honour," replied the man, "but des say 
I do." 

" Very well, then you shall have some, but do not let either of these 
gentlemen see you take it." 

The man winked and rubbed his hands; and the champagne was 
brought, and when the bar-maid had duly filled Sylvester's glass, he 
promptly conveyed it behind him. 

When the glasses had been twice filled, the bottle was empty, and 
Sylvester imagined that Tom would then start; but Tom would have 
another, and when that had been drank, they would have a bottle all 
round. 

"Now," said Sylvester to the man behind him, at the same time 
placing a shilling in his hand, "do not take a glass more than you 
think will do you good. If you do not like to drmk it, you can easily 
throw it behind the cask." 

Throw it behind the cask I — throw champagne behind the cask! 
In the judgment of that man, the idea was monstrous! He, however, 
merelv said, " All right your honour. In all my bom days, I never 
tastea nothing like it." 

Bottle after bottle was now opened and drank, and Sylvester kept 
continually urging Tom to go; but Tom as continually said, "Ted 
bidites bore: there's pledty of tibe yet— off in ted bidites." But while 
the tall glasses continued to be filled, Tom's " ted bidites" frequently 
expired, indeed so frequently that Sylvester became extremely anxious, 
and at length said, " Now Tom, indeed, I must go: ray aimt I know is 
most impatient for my return." 

"Well thed," said Tom, "we'll bizzle. This is the last bottle: a 
couple bore roudds, add thed we'll go." 

The man behind Sylvester now began to sing, and although his voice 
was harsh, while he had not the most remote idea of time, it manifestly 
fell upon. his ears as sweetly as if it had been celestial music. 

"Hold your doise!" cried Tom, who failed to appreciate its beauty* 
" What do ypu kick up that bodstrous row here for?" 

Heedless of this mild remonstrance, the fellow went on with his song, 
rmial two of Tom's friends, receiving the hint from the bar-maid, seiz^ 
hiinlrjrthecollar with the view of showing him out. They had scarcely 



118 SYLVESTER SOUND 

however, raised liiiu from the cask on which he had been sitting, whe4 
his hat fell off, and out flew a pocket-book and a handkerchief, both of 
which Sylvester at once recognized as being his. He therefore picked 
them up, in order to satisfy himself, and having done so, said to the 
fellow with great severity of expression, " You are a bad man— ^ very 
bad man." 

" What !" cried Tom, " do they belodg to you?" 

" Yes," repHed Sylvester ; and Tom was about to inflict summairy ven- 
geance, but Sylvest^ held him back, exclaiming, " Pray don't hurt him! 
He's tipsy, Tom! He knew not, perhaps, what he was about!" 

" Ikxisedse," cried Tom, who turned to rush at the fellow fiercely, 
but by this time Tom's friends had kicked him into the street. 

" Now Tom," said Sylvester, " pray let us go." 

" Yes, we'll go dow," said Tom, ** We'll go dow. Are you sure that 
you have got all you lost?" 

" Yea, quite sure-— quite." 

" Very well, we'll just have a couple of bottles of soda-water to wash 
the chabpagde dowd, and thed we'll be off." 

For Tom's sake, Sylvester consented to this, and when they had 
drank the soda-water and taken leave of the bar-maid, to whom 
Sylvester bowed with great politeness— they bade their friends good 
night, and started. 

" Well," said Tom, « we have seed a little life." 

" Life," thought Sylvester, "it is life, indeed!— But," said he, "do 
you not feel somewhat tipsy?" 

" Dot at all!" replied Tom. " It would dever do to go hobe touched. 
They'd sbell a rat id a bobedt ! I always, whed I get a little extra> 
cure byself before I go hobe." 

" Cure yourself." 

" Of course: I cad always do that in five bidites." 

"Indeed!" 

" Oh I yes. I expected that I should have to cure yout but I fidd you 
can stadd it as well as the best of us." 

" But you do not drink so much as you have drunk to night often?" 

" Oh, Just as it happeds. If you associate with fellows like those, you 
bust dhdk: dot that I care about it buch." 

" Then why do you associate with them?" 

" I'll tell you. There was a tibe whed I was wud of the host steady 
fellows goidg — ^whed all was right at hobe — ^whed hoU was ad attrac* 
tiod: I thed studied hard-^attedded lectures with the utmost regularity, 
add so od — ^but always wedt hobe for relaxatiod, for thed I was fodd of 
my hobe: sobetibes I sat add sugg with the old lady— «obetibes she 
would play sub dew busio to abuse be — sobtibes we got the chess* 
board — sobtibes the cards^-^obetibes she got be to read a dew dovel, and 
spbtibes we had a little part]iat hobe*— there was always sobethidg lively 
goidg od — I could always fid^ sub sort of abusebedt — ^but sidce the 
qW swell has beoub so edaboiire^ of our dew parsod every thidg at hobe 
has beedwretohed, dull, forb^l^ ana ooH. It is to this I ascribe by assooi- 
aliod with those whob we have just litft; ht although they are lOl fite 



TH£ SOHMAJlBULiST. 119 

highHBpiihed tellows, I shouldd't do as I do, il* thidgs were cobfortable at 
hobe." 

'^ Then do you not study now at allV*^ inqiiired Sylvester. 

" Study I I believe I do study," replied Tom. " Why, I wouldd't be 
plucked for a billiod of buddy! You shall see how add where I study, 
whed we get hobe. I have a couple of the host periect skelotods that 
were ever put together, vdth spridgs complete ti'ob head to foot, which 
would albost idduce you to ibagide that you saw the very actiod of the 
busdes! Study! — Why, Yh at it all the hording; it's odely at dight 
that I break loose eved for ad hour. Do, 8yl ; I bay sobetibes kick 
over the traces; but I look to the baid chadce: I have, add the gover- 
dor kdows that I have, too buch pride to be plucked at either the College 
or the Hall. But here we are," he added, on reaching home, " all id 
good tibe. Ted to a bidite! — ^Doctor at hobe, Jabes?" he inquired of 
die servant. 

"No, sir." 

" TeU theb we're id, add gode up to by study, Cobe alodg, Syl," he 
added, leading the way, and Sylvester followed to the top of the house, 
where they entered a room strewn with books, plates, and bones, while 
(m the right, as they entered, stood tNVO tall figures enveloped in bags. 

" Dow thed, look here," said Tom, taking off the bags, and display- 
ing two really majestic skeletons. " There ! what do you thidk of 
theb?" 

"They appear to be very perfect: very perfect indeed." 

" Perfect! I believe they are perfect. Look here! — look at the spridgs! 
— they'll stadd id ady attitude you please! They'll fedce with you — . 
box with you — dadce with you— do adythidg you like. This is the 
bale add that's the febale: they were tmds — ^rub-uds, wered't they?" 

"They must have been finely formed persons," said Sylvester. "I'll 
look at them again in the morning: I shall see them then to greater per- 
fection. Where did you get them?" 

" Groverdor gave theb to he P' replied Tom, covering them up again. 
" He gave a huddred guideas for theb ; but for adotobical study they're 
worth a thousadd to ady bad alive. There's dothidg like 'eb id Europe ! 
They are a pair of regular beauties. — That's a budkey," he added, 
pointing to a beautiful little skeleton. " There's dothidg codtebptible 
efved id that! — good forb, you see — ^very good forb. Do you kdow buch 
about cobparative adatoby ?" 

" Not much," replied Sylvester." 

"Thed, study that. K you kdow a budkey, you kdow a bad: to 
parody the poet's lide — ^Bad— of course physic^y — 

** Bad's but a budkey of a larger growth.** 

But ril show you theb all id the mordidg. That's a cat!— capital catj 
isd't it? Tve killed lots of 'eb, but dever foudd ode to equal that." 

" What, do you kill 'em yourself?" inquired Sylvester. 

"Kill 'eb ? Perhaps I dod't! Why there isd't a cat that'll cub >vithid 
a bile of this house! They all kdow be. Look here," he added, open- 
ing tihe window; '* here's a beautiM parapet, gutter add all!-^ capital 



120 STtVESl^ER SOUNtI 

place for 'eb, this! But do you hear ady caterwaulidg ? Dot a bit of 
it! They dever cub here ! — they dever will till I'b godc : add thed 
they'll have a regular jubilee, doubtless. But I cad't gt^t a cat dow! — 
they all seeb to shud be! The old lady odce had a fadcy of keepidg 
cats; but as she lost about ted every fortdight, she cut it! — so that I 
cad't get a cat dow at all!'' 

" Coffee's ready, sir," said James, as he entered the room. 

" Very good," said Tom, " we'll be dowd id a bidite. But Jib, I've 
dothidg for supper here, have I?" * 

"No, sir; you finished it all up last night." 

" Thed get me a pigeod pie : let it be a beauty. Have I ady stout 
left?" 

" There are four or five bottles, sir." 

" That will do. Jib. But let the pigeod pie. Jib, be double the size." 

" Very well, sir," said James, as he left the room, and as Sylvester looked 
earnestly at Tom, as if he felt that some sort of an explanation would 
be agreeable, Tom said, " Syl, I'll tell you what it is: I like a bit of 
sobethidg for supper — I cad't sleep without it — add as the old swells 
below have dothidg but coffee, which is all very well id its way, I 
always sedd Jib for sobthidg dice to eat up here whed they are all gode 
to bed." 

Sylvester thought this rational enough; and when he had given 
expression to his thoughts on the subject, they went down into the 
drawing-room together, and took coffee with Aunt Eleanor and Mrs. 
Delolme. 

. The doctor, who had been to see a patient, came in immediately after 
they had finished, and had -coffee too; and when the tables had been 
cleared, he, Sylvester, and Tom, discussed the prominent merits of the 
medical profession — ^while Mrs. Delolme was pointing out to Aunt Elea- 
nor various passages in the Bible which favoured her views — ^tiU the 
timepiece struck twelve, when the bell was rung, and the servants came 
up to prayers. 

Mrs. Delolme read them, and the doctor sat opposite, but all the 
rest tmned and knelt; but, although they were read with great fervour 
of expression, they failed to have any other effect upon the servants 
than that of inducing them to pinch each other, with the view of chang- 
ing that aspect of soleninity which, on entering the room, they had 
assumed. 

The prayers being ended, the servants withdrew; and, when Mrs. 
Delolme had pointed out the extreme beauty of those prayers, they all 
i-etired to rest, with the exception of Tom and Sylvester, who went into 
the study to eat the pigeon pie. 

And it really was a nice pie, a very nice pie. Tom pronounced it to 
be " dothidg but ad out-ad-outer!" — and they ate very heartily find en- 
joyed it very much. The stout too was good: it was capital stout. 
Tom declared "there was do bistake about it!" — nor was there any: 
no: it was well up and soft, and two bottles went down with surpassing 
smoothness. 

But with two bottles Tom was pot content. " We'll just have wud 



TH£ SOMITAMBtTLMT. 121 

bore," said he, " add thed we'll go to bed, for you look, Syl, as if ytm 
were dearly dead beat."" 

Sylvester, as Tom promptly opened the third bottle, acknowledged 
that he felt rather tired, but he was aroused by the production of the 
flkdeloQ of a squirrel, which Tom caused to crack nuts by pinching its 
tail 

" 1*11 read you the history of this little swell,*" said Tom. '< Whed aliye 
he was a rub ud.'* 

And he got his portfolio, and having placed several sheets of manu- 
script before him, commenced reading the life and adventures of " Moses 
the Squirrel.** 

He had, however, scarcely read the second sentence, when, on looking 
up, he found his friend Sylvester asleep. 

« HoUo!** he cried, "Syir 

"Really," said Sylvester, "you must excuse me.** 

" Well, I kdow you bust be tired,** said Tom, restoring his precious 
manuscript to the portfolio. " Ebty the glass, add we*ll be off. Tra- 
vellidg idvariably bakes a fellow sleepy. I kdow what it is. Fll just 
put these thidgs od wud side, add thed see you to your roob. — ^Dow thed,*' 
he added, as soon as this feat had been accomplished, and he and Syl- 
vester left the study, and when he had pointed out Sylvester's room, he 
diook hands with him, exclaiming, " Grod bless you!— good dight.** 



CHAPTER XVI. 



TOB AND mS WOBAD. 



About two hours after the delivery of that remarkable sentence 
with which the preceding chapter concludes, Policeman D 99, an ex- 
tremely intelligent and raw-boned person, whose acuteness in looking 
after cooks wiUi money sufficient to take a public-house, surpassed that 
of any other member of the force— saw something — ^he could not at first 
see distinctly what it was, it being some distance from him, but he knew 
that he saw something— ^running along the parapet of the houses on his 
right. 

Of course the trump of duty called him instantly to the spot, and 
having obeyed the call, he stationed himself opposite, from which point 
he clearly beheld the figure of a man, with nothing apparently on him 
but lus shirt. 



122 8TLyS8T£B SOUIIB 

Conceiving that robbery was contemplated, and knowing that 
promotion sprang not from prevention but cure, he was silent, and 
moved caationsly into the shade of a doorway to watch the proceedings 
above. 

He had not, however, been long in this position when his Serjeant 
approached. 

^'Hist!** said Ninety-nine, as the Serjeant was passing. 

"Who are you?" 

"Nincty-nine." 

"What are you up to?" 

"Herel" 

The Serjeant joined him in the shade. 

" Do you see that fellow there?" continued Ninety-nine. 

"Good GodP exclaimed the Serjeant. "/« it possible! Why, the 
slightest^ slip— a single moment^s dizziness^-would bring him to the 
ground, and dash his brains out." 

" A robbery, safe," said Ninety-nine. 

" A robbery: nonsense," returned the seijeant, who panted with ap- 
prehension. " He'll fall I — ^hell fell presently— certain to fall !'* 

" Not a bit of it," coolly observed Ninety-nine. " He's as safe as the 
bank. He's been running about in that way for a long time." 

" I never saw a man in so perilous a position. What can he be up 
to?" 

"He appears to me to be moving goods from one house to ano- 
ther." 

" But I can see nothing in his hands." 

"Nor can I," said Ninety-nine; "but he keeps on i-unning back- 
wards and forwards, stooping here and stooping there, as if he had. 
But there's more than him in it. He beckoned just now to his 



"Didyousee^Aemr 

" No, I couldn't see 'em. They keep in the background, but I know 
they're somewhere there." 

" There he goes again !" cried the serjeant. " My life! what a devil. 
He's surely not after the cats?" 

" Cat's I" said Ninety-nine. " What man on the top of a house can 
catch cats?'* 

" He may snare them!" 

" Snare 'em, he may. But I see no cats! he's after no cats. 

" Did you see where he came fix)m?'' 

"Not exactly; but I think, from one of those houses down there." 

" Here he comes," said the serjeant; "now watch him. He appears 
to have done his work. See how cool he is! — see how deliberately— 
how firmly he walks. — ^Now! He has stopped! Do you see him looking 
in at that window? It's opened for him. He enters. He's in. Now 
my boy, if plunder be your object, you're booked." 

" That's safe to be his object," said Ninety-nine. 

" I don't know," said the serjeant. " I think he's after one of ihii 




^n^^s^y ^ A 



U(^/? 



THE SOmrAMBULIST. 123 

maids. At all events, you go off at once for another man. You'll find 
one at the comer. HI remain here." 

Ninety-nine started off, and soon returned with Ninety-six. 

" Now, then," said the serjeant to Ninety-six, "you stand here; and 
keep your eyes upon that window." 

"What, that?' 

"No, that." 

"What, that there one?" 

" Tes. And if any one should come out of it, watch where he 



" All right," said Ninety-six. 

" Now, then,** said the serjeant, addressing Ninety-nine, " well go 
over." And marking the house to which the window belonged, they 
went to ate door of Dr. Delolme. 

When the serjeant had rang the bell two or three times gently— con- 
ceiving it to be inexpedient to make too much noise— tiie doctor ap- 
peared at one of the windows, and called out " Who's there?" 

" Policemen," replied Ninety-nine. " There are theives in the house, 
lir." 

•Ajw do you know?" 

.."We saw cme of them just now steal in at the top window." 
. " Bless my lifeP' said the doctor. " Fll be down in one moment." And 
having hastily slipped on his trowsers, he took a brace of loaded pistols 
fidD a ease which he constantly kept in his room, and descended with one 
in eac h hand. 

"What had better be done?" said he, on opening the door. 

"We had better go up and secure them," replied the serjeant, as he 
oMDed his bull's-eye lantern. " Pve stationed a man outside to keep a 
sharp look out above. Perhaps / may as well have one of those?" he 
added, pointing to the pistols. 

The doctor gave him one on the instant, and when the door had been 
locked and the key taken out, they proceeded up stair9-*Ninety-nine 
going first. 

As they proceeded, they took the precaution to lock evenr door which 
was not locked inside, until they arrived at the door of Tom's study ; 
when the doctor said, "Now, this is the room at the window of which 
you saw him enter; therefore prepare." 

The serjeant cooked his pistol, and Ninety-nine opened the door, but 
he no sooner brought his brilliant bull's-eye to bear upon the skeletons, 
than uttering an exclamation of horror, he shrunk back appalled. The 
seijeant rushed forward in the twinkling of an eye» and perceiving 
indistinctly two figures on his right, shot one of them, as he ima- 
gined, through the heart, and produced on the instant a most tre- 
mendous rattling of bones, for the skeleton of Tom's female fell all to 



"No, no!" cried the doctor, rushing in. "Don't touch them I they're 
~" life," he added, on percef 

the meaning of all this?" 



merely skeletons I — ^Bless my life," he added, on perceiving the male in 
a pugilistic attitude, " what's 



124 SYLVESTER SOUND 

*' Hollo I'' shouted Tom, who had been aroused from his slumber by 
the rattling of the bones ; " What are you up to? — ^Who's there?" 

*' Come up, Tom, come upP cried the doctor; and Tom, without stop- 
ping to put on a thing, rushed up stairs. 

"What's the batter — ^what's the batter— what the devil's the bat- 
ter?" 

Ninety-nine trembled, and the s^eant looked pale, as the doctor 
replied, " There are thieves in the house." 

" Thieves!" cried Tom. " Well, but I say, what's all this?— where's 
by wobad?" 

" I shot it by mistake," said the seijeant. 

" Shot it by bistake, you fool I What do you bead by shootidg it by 
bistake? you ve dud a huddred poudds wortin of dabage." 

" I cant help it," said the seijeant; " you should keep such things as 
these covered over." 

" Well, they were covered over. What did you pull the bags off for? 
•^what the devil right had you to beddle with 'eb at all?" 

" /didn't meddle with them! — ^/pulled no bags off." 

" Who did, thed ? Sobebody bust have pulled theb off." 

" They were not covered up," said Ninety-nine, " when / entered. 
That there one stood as it stands now, and that t'other one was pointing 
at me—so." 

" No, no, Tom," said the doctor, " they were not covered up." 

" I tell you, I covered theb up byself, just before I wedt to bed!— I'll 
take by oath of it" 

"Then those fellows must have uncovered them," said the Ser- 
jeant. 

"Where are they?"^ cried Tom. "If I catch 'eb, I'll break their 
blessed decks!— where are they?" 

They looked round the room, but no soul could be seen. The Ser- 
jeant went to the window and called to Ninety-six, but Ninety-six had 
seen no one get out. 

" Then," said the serjeant, " that one at least must be in the house 
stm." 

They now commenced a diligent search, with the view of going from 
the top of the house to the bottom^ prying into every conceivable comer, 
and holding themselves in readiness for an attack. 

" Archibald ! Archibald ! What is the matter?" cried Mrs. Delolme, 
as they passed her room. 

"Nothing, dear — ^nothing — don't be alarmed," said the doctor, on 
opening the door. 

"But why are these men here? — ^pray tell me," she exclaimed, 
coming forward in a wrapper — " pray tell me what it is." 

" They fancied they saw some one enter the house*" 

" Grood gracious! what, this house? — And were they mistaken?" 

A thought struck Ninety-nine! 

" Have you, ma'am," said he, " any maid which is any way unsteady?" 

Mrs. Delolme was shocked at the thought. 



THE SOMNAMBULIST. 125 

" Because, ma'am,** oontinued Ninety-nine, " the man which entered 
the window abore hasn't been seen to get out again, ma'am." 

"Giye me a candle," said Mrs. Delohnc. "Archibald, you come 
with me." And, going direct to her servants' rooms, demanded imme- 
diate admittance, and obtained it; but found nothing to confirm the 
suspicion of Ninety-nine. 

" You are mistaken in your conjecture," she observed, on her return, 
and Ninety-nine said it was merely a thought. " Thank heaven!" she 
added, " my servants, I believe, are all strictly virtuous." 

" Well, I know he's somewhere about," said Ninety-nine ; and when 
Ninety-nine had given expression to this conviction, they continued the 
seaioh. They went into the drawing-rooms, but foimd no one there: 
they went into the parlours : the result was the same. 

" Strange," observed the doctor, " very strange." 

" If he be in the house," said the Serjeant, " we'll find him." 

"Are you perfectly certain," said Mrs. Delolme — are you sure— 
quite sure — ^that you saw a man enter this house?" 

"Oh, quite, ma'am— quite," returned the serjeant. "We saw him 
cutting his capers on the parapet, for more than twenty minutes before 
we rang the bell." 

" On the parapet! heaven preserve us!" 

'' How he did it / can't imagine. I know it made me tremble even 
to look at him. I expected every moment to see him fall and dash his 
brains out." 

Another thought struck Ninety-nine! 

" I don't think," said he, suddenly, making a dead stand as they were 
about to proceed to the kitchen — " I don't think we need go on with this 
here search. It strikes me," he continued, placing his hands upon his 
hips, and assiuning an air of infinite importance — " I say, it strikes me, 
and that very forcibly too, that the person, the man, the individual, 
which was playing off his pranks upon that there parapet, and which we 
saw afterwards bolt into that there top window, aint very far off" 

" What do you mean?" demanded the serjeant. 

" Why, I mean as this," promptly replied Ninety-nine, cocking his 
head on one side, and looking at Tom with unexampled acutenes»*-" I 
mean to say that the man wluch we saw up there, now stands very near 
me. He had nothing but his shirt on! — ^very well, then! — ^Is there no 
one in this room with nothing but his shirt on?" 

" Why, you igdoradt raw-bode wretch!" exclaimed Tom, with indig- 
nation, "if you bead to say that I ab the bad-—" 

" Tom! dear Tom!"— exclaimed Mrs. Delolme, — " pray, pray do not 
go on so: for my sake, dear Tom; for the sake of your own soul." 

"I can pretty nigh swear to the shirty' said Ninety-nine to the 
doctor. 

" Swear to the shirt!" cried Tom. " Yon adiball— you doe-dothidg 
idcobprehedsible dodkey !" 

" Don't be impetuous, Tom," said the doctor. 

" Ibpetuous! Isd't edough to bake ady bad ibpetuous to hear suck 



IM fiTLYB«TSA 80UND 

ad ugly abortiod as that, with a head like a lubp of dothidg stuck upod 
dowhere, talk of swearidg to a shirt which he saw od a bad abo^t half 
abileoffidthedarkr 

" Half a mile," said Ninety-nine. " It was not a hundred yards." , 

" I dod*t care if it were dot a huddred feet," returned Tom. " It wod't 
l)ake you a whit the less a fool.'' 

" Don't call me a fool, if you please," said Ninety-nine, who didn't 
like it. "If I've done anything wrong, here's my niunber — ^Ninety- 
nine." 

" Didety-dide!'* cried Tom. " You ought to have didety-dide every 
bordidg before breakfast, to give you ad appetite for swearidg to a 
shirt." 

" That is not the shirt which we saw," said the serjeant, addressing 
Ninety-nine, confidentially. " The one which we saw was miich shorter 
than that. You see that comes down below the calves." 

"He might have pulled it up, mightn't he, while he was run- 
ning?" 

" So he might," replied the serjeant. " He certainly might have done 
that" 

" Besides," said Tom, who, during this colloquy, saw that neither his 
mother nor his ^Either was satisfied, " is it codceivable that I could ever 
be so stadseless ad ass as to risk by deck Upod that parapet! Why the 
copidg isd't bore tfaad a foot wide. He was ruddidg — niddidg back- 
wards add forwards, didd't you say?" 

"Yes," replied the serjeant. 

"J dod't believe a word of it Doe bad could do it I— there's dot a bad 
lividg that would eved attebpt it! Look at the width of the stode and 
the height of the house! I'll bet a thousadd gtudeas, do bad cad be 
foudd to rud as you say you saw that bad rud alodg there. Take all 
St. Giles's — ^take all Wappidg — ^bridg all the sailors add bricklayers' 
labourers you like — take all the world— add you^ll dot fidd a bad so 
lost—HBO utt^ly lost— to every sedse of dadger to do it." 

" Certainly,'' said the serjeant, " 1 never ooitld have believed it possi- 
ble, if I had not myself seen it." 

" You dever did see it," cried Tom. " Doe bad ever saw it. I see 
it dow clearly edoUgh. I see the otyect which idduced you to say that 
you saw it." 

" To what object do you allude," inquired the serjeant. 

" Buddy," replied Tom ; " Buddy ! You thought as a batter of course 
that the goverdor would stadd sobethidg haddsome.'^ 

" { despise the insinuation," retorted the seijeant. " I say again, and 
am {»*epared to take my oath, that t saw a man rimning upon the coping 
of that parapet and enter the window above." 

" Add do you bead to say, like your friedd Didety-dide there — ^the 
lidibal!— that /was that bad." 

" That," replied the serjeant, " I must leave.'* 

" And don't call me an animal again," said Ninety-ni|ie, " I'll not be 
jall^ an c^u^m^ by you. or any other maU." 



THE SOMMAMBUUfiT. 127 

<' Whftt will you be called thed? — a vegetable? I tell jou agaid that 
you are ad adibal, add ad out-ad-out ugly adibal to." 

*^ Beciiinination," said the doctor, ^^ will never solve this mystery. I 
have not the slightest doubt/' he continued, addressing the Serjeant, 
" that that which you have stated is substantially correct, a^d that if the 
man entered the window above he is in the house now. T^e only question 
therefore is, ^ Where is that man?* We have seaitshed the house down 
to thifl parlour in vain ; but I shall not— I cannot — ^feel satisfied, until we 
have completed the search." 

" Then let us proceed," said the Serjeant, " at once." 

** It's no use," said Ninety-nine. " We shall find nothing." 

" How is it possible for you to know that?" said the doctor. 

" Kdow it," said Tom, " why he'd swear it. A fellow who'd swear to 
the shape of a shirt, would swear ady thidg." 

" Let us have no more recrimination," said the doctor. " We have 
had. enough of that." 

It is certain that as they proceeded to the kitchen, Tom did not ex- 
pect that any man would be fi)imd, for he utterly disbelieved the tale 
of the policemen, conceiving it to be impossible for any man to nm on 
that coping in the manner described'— but at the same time equally 
certain is it that he hoped that some man might be found, inasmuch as 
— ^independently of the pleasure it would have given him to thrash the 
prime cause of his skeleton's fall — he perceived that both his father and 
his mother had inspired the conviction expressed by Ninety-nine. 

" Well," said the doctor, when the kitchens had been searched, " it is 
perfectly clear that no stranger is in the house. I shall, therefore, 
return to my chamber with the full assurance of security. I thank you 
for your vi^lance," he added, on reaching the hall, '^ but should it ever 
occur again, you will oblige me by ringing the bell at once, that we may 
go up a nd see what madman it is." 

f' We certainly will do so," said the Serjeant.- '' I should have come 
over before, in this instance, but of course I knew not which house to 
come to, until I saw the maniac-^for a maniac he must be to place him- 
self in a position of so much peril— enter the window." 

" We shall catch you yet," said Ninety-nine, addressing Tom, who 
—enraged at the fact of being accused of that of which of course he 
knew that he was innocent, and galled more especially by the knowledge 
of Ninety-nine having induced lus father and mother to believe that in 
reality he was that " maniac" — rushed at him on the instant, and struck 
him to the groimd. 

Ninety-nine drew his truncheon, but Tom, who could have crushed 
him, wrenched it in an instant from his hand, when the doctor rushed 
between them, and angrily cried " Tom! are you my son, or a madman 
broke loose?" 

" Your 50w/" replied Tom, ja^nouncing the n well, "and I should 
be udworthy of being your son, if I allowed byself to be idsulted with 
ibpudity by a wretch Hke that!" 

"Here, give me this thing*— give me this thing," said the doctor, 



Ii8 iYLVSSTEB 80UKD 

evidently not at all displeased with Tom's reply; and having possessed 
himself of the truncheon, gave it to the serjeant, and begged of him to 
take Ninely-nine out of the house. '* Call upon me to-morrow, and 1^11 
speak to you/' he added; and on opening the door, Ninety-nine vanished 
without venturing to say another word. 

*^ Good morning,'^ said the serjeaat, as he withdrew. ^^ Good morning." 

^' Now,** said the doctor, having locked the door, and felt it to be his 
duty to assume an expression of anger — ^^ Now, sir, having created the 
whole of this disturbance, perhaps you will deem it expedient to go to 
bed;' 

" Dot udtil rb satisfied," replied Tom, fiercely. " Father, I dever to 
my kdowledge disobeyed you: to by kdowledge I dever told you a deli- 
berate fiilsehood: willidg as yoa are to believe ady bad—- eved that cod- 
tebptible adibal— -in preferedce to be, I would dot id ady baterial poidt 
deceive you." 

'^ I am notj sir, willing to believe any man in preference to you.". 

'^ Well, thed, let be tell you this— it is for you to believe or disbdieve 
be : over your fiuth, I have, of course, do codtroul ; but, father, I declare 
to you, upod by hodour, I kdow dothidg of this." 

" Do you," said the doctor, ^' declare this upon your honour ?«— do you 
declare, upon your honour, that it was not you wncHn they saw upon the 
parapet?" 

" I do," replied Tom. 

'' Tom," said the doctor, taking his hand, *' I am satisfied, perfectly 
satisfied, Tom — good night." 

The doctor now believed him, but Mrs. Delolme did not. Religious 
enthusiasm breeds no charity, being in its essence intolerant. 

^' Well," said Tom privately, on getting into bed again — 'Hhis is what 
/call ago ! It's a cobfort to be fortudate; but it's ablessidg to bea vic- 
tib; add that I have beed victibized id this affair, doe bad id Edgladhj, 
save Didety-dide, cad doubt. That Didety-dide! Well! He's a poor fod. 
But look at the bischief he has caused. Here ab I, after havid|g by 
wobad destroyed, or so shattered that it will take half a cedtuiy to put 
her together agaid — accused of goidg out at dight, add cuttidg by capers 
upod tikat appallidg parapet, whed I kdow that I'b as iddoc^t as a kid 
id ebbryo." 

T<Mn did think this hard — ^very hard; and, while deeply reflecting 
upon the hardship, droj^ped off again to sleep. 



TH£ SOICNAMBULIST. 129 



CHAPTER XVn. 



JULIA. 



Of all the accomplishments by which we are charmed, time politeness 
is the brightest and the most admirable ; seeing that while it imparts 
pleasure to all who come within the scope of its influence, it prompts the 
development of that essential goodness of heart which repudiates the idea 
of giving offence. It has nothing to do with formality: neither bowing 
nor smiling, nor the practice of any prescribed ceremonial, can prove 
the existence of true politeness : nor does it consist in a servile assent to 
•every opinion that may be advanced — ^for that is the finit either of folly 
or of subtlety springing from a mean or an immoral design: its essence 
is that generosity which leads us to study — ^not to woimd, but to respect 
—the feelings of those around us, with a view to promote their comfort 
by all the means at our command; and this generosity — this germ of 
true politeness — conspicuously characterised Dr. Delolme. In him there 
was a total absence of ever^rtmng bearing even the semblance of assump- 
tion. He made no display of superiority, no attempt at dictation: he 
would not willingly woimd the feelings of any man afive : nor would he, 
except indeed in cases of approaching death, fail to conceal, if possible, 
any circumstance calculated in his judgment to create annoyance or 
alarm: his motive will therefore be well imderstood, when it is stated 
that, having learned that Aimt Eleanor had slept so soundly that she 
heard nothing of the disturbance of the preceding night, he submitted 
to Mrs. Delolme the propriety, under the circumstances, of keeping the 
whole affair a secret. 

That lady, however, held that nothing ought to be concealed : that 
concealment was a species of deception; and that if anything occurred, 
and we acted or spoke as if it had not occurred, we were guilty of hypo- 
crisy: it therefore took some considerable time, and required many 
power^ arguments to convince her that she was not strictly justified in 
unnecessarily creating alarm in the minds of her guests. 

While, however, the process of conviction was going on, Tom, who 
could not sleep after six o'clock that morning, dressed himself, and on 
going into Sylvester's room, explained to him all that had occurred. 

" Dow," said he, having gone completely through the scene, to the 
utter amazement of Sylvester, " what do you thidk of that?" 

"It's very mysterious!" said Sylvester; *^very mysterious!" 

" Bysterious ! But do you believe it?" cried Tom. " Cad ady bad 
codceive the possibility of a fellow beidg able to rud alodg a stode so 
darrow at such a height as that? Slip od your thidgs add cobe add look 
at it." 



IdO STLYBSTBB SOVND 

Sylvester did so, while Tom was lamenting the iiTepai'able injury sus- 
tained by the skeleton, which he affectionately termed his " idcobparable 
wobad." 

" There you are," said Tom, as they entered the study, " thatV the 
state of thid^s,yousee! here lies by wobad! here she is, you see,sbashed 
all to atobs! Dever get he* right ftgftid: I kdow we dever shall. It 
will take a bad a bodth to sort the bodes. Add here you are agaid!" he 
added, pointing to his monkey, " that's dode for! baU, you see, wedt 
cobpletely through hib! That was the fidest budkey id dature. Did 
you ever see such havoc? Isd't it edough to drive a fellow ravidg 
bad?" 

" it is very aonoyii^/' said Sylvester, " very^ But let us look at 
this par£^)6t/' 

''Here yoti are thedl this i9 it! a dice place to dadce upod! just look 
at the distadoe £rob the groudd! He bust be a bold bad who'd thidk of 
cuttidg his cap^s here." 

" i siiould say that no man would ever attempt it." 

'' 2>everl Add yet the old goverdo* swallowed it sdl. But that I didd't 
eare so btich about: it was the idea — ^the bodstrous idea-K>f its beidg 
ibagided that / was the bad that galled be! I dod't care about beidg 
vietibized btic^ if do real disgrace is idvolved^ but this was ad attack 
upod wud's judgbedt, ad attaek Upod Wud's reasod, ad attack upod wud's 
owd setf-esteeb, wMch I oersddd't be ratiodally expected to stadd. Why^ 
if i were to out about hete, I should say that by deck wasd't worth bore 
thad five bidites piffchasel As I said last dight, I dod't beheve they 
saw ady bad at all* It's all 4odsedse } Here's the goverdor/' he added, 
as i)r. i)ek)lme called hdma — 

" Are you up st^s, Tom?" cried the doctor. 

"Yes/ repUed Tom^ " I'b here." 

" Yoti have/' said the doctor, as he entered the study, " you have, I 
prestime, exf^ained all to Sylvester ?" 

" Yes/' replied Tom, " add he thidks with be that do bad id Edglad 
could do it. Look here. The stode is just a foot add a half wide. DoW, 
do you thidk it probable-^ay, do you thidk it possible?" 

" Doubtless," said the doctor, " the policemen somewhat exaggerated. 
I do think it impossible for any man to run upon this coping in the 
manner described ; but a man might with cai^e walk safely behind it." 

"Bttt they said distidetly, upod it — ^ruddidg backwards add forwards 
upod it.'* 

" But I should say that all they saw in reality was some one walk- 
ing here. That they saw a man outside, I have not the slightest 
doubt: nor can I for a moment doubt that they saw that man enter this 
wmdow*^" 

"Well," s»d Tom, "that^ eertaidly^bridgs the thidg withid the scope 
of reasod ; add if there be ady wud id the habit of eobidg here, I'll fix 
hib." 

"You are quite sure that you left those skeletons covered?" 

" Qitttel I eotered theb byself ! Syl saw be do iV 

"They were covered," said Sylvester, "when we went to bed." 



THE SOHNAHBXrLIST. 131 

" Then," eaid the doctor, " it's perfectly clear that some one must 
have entered." 

<* Let hib cobe agaid," cried Tom, " odiy let hib cobe. He shall re- 
bebbeti^rilfixhibr 

"We must have some ii-ou bars put up," said the doctor. "Wfe 
shall be safe enough from all intrusion then. And now," he added, 
addressing Sylvester, " as your aimt has heard nothing of this affair, and 
88 the knowledge of it may unnecessarily alarm her, I think that in her 
presence we had better be silent on the subject. You understand?" 

<* Perfectly," said Sylvester. " I thmk so too." 

** We must prevent its recurrence." 

"Leave that to be," said Tom; "Til settle that." 

"Very well: do so,*' returned the doctor. "Now let us go down to 
brejikfast." 

"I say," whispered Tom, keeping Sylvester back, "do you kdow what 
a bad-trap is?" 

"A inan-trap? Oh, yes." 

" That wiU be the thidg ; Til get wud of theb. TU badage it. I thidk 
I kdow Inhere I cad buy wud." 

"But where will you place it?" 

"Just udder the widdow : so that whed he jubps dowd he bay put 
Md foot id it. That'll fix hib. He'll rebebber it, whoever he bay be. 
But dod't say a word to the old swells below. They wouldd't have it. 
They'd say, * We'll dot pudish, but prevedt.' But I wadt to catch hib. 
By object is to serve hib out: first, od accoudt of the destructiod of by 
wobad; add secoddly^ id codsequedce of his havidg beed the pribe cause 
of by beidg bade bost udjustly a victib. I therefore should like to catch 
hib very bueh iddeed, add whed I do catch hib, I'll give hib codfidedtially 
a thrashidg, which shall redder it the happiest day of by life. There- 
fore, bub's the word." 

Sylvester promised to be silent on the subject, and they followed 
the doctor into the breakfast-room, where they found Aunt Eleanor and 
Mrs. Delolme already seated. As he entered, Sylvester was greeted 
with great affection, both by Mrs. Delolme and his aimt ; but Tom, hav- 
ing shaken hands warmly with Aunt Eleanor, sat down in silence, for, 
as he privately explained to Sylvester, a single glance at the other lady 
tended to convince him that he knew exactly what it was o'clock. 

And really Mrs. Delolme did look very severe. She believed that he 
had told an abominable falsehood, and having resolved on introducing 
' him in the course of the morning to the Reverend IVfr. Terre, she felt 
it to be her duty to preface the introduction with a well sustained look 
of severity. But the doctor appeared to be in excellent spirits. He 
chatted with all of them gaily — spoke of the various exhibitions in town, 
of the public improvements, and so on, with an accm^ate knowledge of 
each, and in a strain which induced Aunt Eleanor to wish to see them 
all. Immediately after breakfast, however, Mrs. Delolme, having previously 
intimated to Aunt Eleanor her desire to introduce her to the Reverend 
Mr. Terre, secured her for the morning; and when the carriage had 
been ordered, she requested Tom to prepare to accompany them Ibrthwith, 

k2 



182 STLYBSTER SOUND 

** Where are you goidg?" inquired Tom. 

" To various places," replied Mrs. Delolme. 

** Oh ! very well. Syl goes with us of course?" 

" It has been decided that, until our return, Sylvester remains with 
the doctor." 

"What for?" 

" I say that it has been thus decided." 

" Oh 1 well, if there be adythidg cabaUstic goidg od, I dod't wadt to 
kdow ad3rthidg about it. I'b ready whed you are." 

Accordingly, when the carriage was announced, Tom entered with 
Aunt Eleanor and Mrs. Delolme, and when the coachman had been 
directed to drive them to the residence of Mr. Terre, Tom wanted to 
know particularly what they were going there for. The only answer 
he obtained, however, was that they were going for an excellent pm'- 
pose, and as he found that this was the only answer he could obtain, he 
thought that he might as well be satisfied with it as not. 

Having arrived at the house of the reverend lion, Aunt Eleanor and 
Tom were introduced to a tall, pale, light-haired, awkward individual, 
who, while he displayed a considerable portion of the "whites" of his 
eyes, proved clearly that he had cultivated that which in the Scotch 
Kirk is termed the " holy tone" to perfection. Tom didn't like the man: 
he went prejudiced against him : he felt that he had been, by him, 
deprived of those comforts — ^those innocent pleasures — of home, to 
which he had been from infancy accustomed, and therefore, on being in- 
troduced, he bowed as stiffly as possible. 

Having received an intimation from Mrs. Delolme that she was 
anxious to speak to him privately for a moment, Mr. Terre, with all the 
grace he had in him — which really wasn't much — conducted her into 
an adjoining room. Here they conversed for some time, and on the 
return of Mrs. Delolme, she requested Tom to go in and speak to Mr. 
Terre. 

"What about?" inquired Tom. 

" He is anxious to speak to you." 

" Well: cad*t he say what he has to say here?" 

" He wishes to speak to you privately." 

"Well, but what about? I dod't wish to have ady private cobbudi- 
catiod with hib! What does he wadt?" 

" You will hear, sir, as soon as you enter that room." 

" Well, I dare say I shaU." 

" You do not, I presume, refuse to go?" 

" Oh, ril go!" replied Tom: and he went; and when he had entered 
the room, Mr. Terre, with an expression of dignity, and in a most 
authoritative tone, said— 

" Yoimg man — " 

" Youdg bad 1" echoed Tom, who didn't like to be thus addressed. 

" In the first place," continued Mr. Terre, " I most earnestly exhort 
you to read, mark, learn, and inwardly digest, the first ten verses of the 
fifth chapter of the Acts of the Apostles." 

" What for?" inquired Tom. 




^iimiMM^ 



/^^^m^ 



^^ .^/i^y7i/jf^^^ci^ ^ ^^^^- 



THE SOMNAMBULIST. 183 

^^ In order that you may understand tlie imminent peril to which it 
appears you habitually expose yourself." 

" The first ted verses of chapter the fifth! Allow be to look at theb 
dow, that I bay see at odce what they are about." 

The New Testament was handed to him promptly, and when Tom 
had turned to the chapter in question, and found that it related to Ana-^ 
mas and Sapphira, he looked at Mr. Terre, and inquired what he meant. 

"You say," said he, "that I habitually expose byself to the peril 
here described; do you bead thed to say that I'b ad habitual liar." 

" I merely mean to say that it appears — " 

"What appears?" 

" That you are in the habit of telling falsehoods." 

" Do you wadt be to kick you," said Tom, indignantly. " What do 
you bead? How does it appear? Tell be that." 

" It i^pears, sir, from what your good mother has told me." 

"Frob what by bother has told you!" cried Tob. " Stop a bidite," 
he added, approaching the door; "FU sood settle this affair. Bother; 
just step here a bobedt." 

jMrs. Delolme walkied solemnly in. 

"Have you beed tellidg this bad," inquired Tom, "that Yh ad 
habitual liar?" 

" I told him," replied Mrs. Delohne, " that you were in the habit of 
telling falsehoods." 

" Bother," said Tom, " I ab, by prescriptiod, boudd to respect every 
word you utter ; but as I ab udcodscious of ever havidg told a deliberate 
falsehood, I caddot respect the words you have just prodoudced . I kdow, of 
course, what you allude to: you allude to the proceedidgs of last dight; 
but I agaid declare, upod by sacred hodour, that every woi-d of by 
dedial was true." 

Here Mr. Terre turned up the whites of his eyes, tmtil the pupils ^vere 
lost to view. 

"As to that iddividual," continued Tom, pointing to Mr. Terre 
with an expression of contempt, " I respect the sacred office which he 
holds, bi^ li this case, I caddot respect the holder. Arrogadce add 
igdoradc?^ iorb his chief characteristics: arrogadce id presubidg to 
address be as he did, add ignoradce id supposidg that if ev«i I had beed 
guilty of falsehood, I could, by the beads he adopted, be boved. You 
are a teacher, sir; but you have buch to leard; the liubad he«rt should 
be your study." 

Mrs. Delolme was shocked! and on turning to Mi*. Terre, as Tom 
quitted the room, she perceived, by the awful expression he assumed, 
^t he had given Tom up for lost. The reverend gentleman had 
nevertheless words of consolation for 'Mia. Delolme, and when he had 
delivered those words in the most impressive style of which he was 
capable, she rejoined Aunt Eleanor — ^who was, alas! laughing with Tom 
at the time — ^with the view of inducing her to subscribe to a fund for 
the diffusion of blankets and tracts among the poor — ^to which fund the 
reverend gentleman, in order to save aU unnecessary expense, kindly 
ftcted as secretary and treasurer, and which diffusion he, "with infinite 



184 STI^VESTBR 80Uiq> 

goodness of lie^t, and with the saxm highly Uudable object in view, 
superintended. Of course, Aunt Eleanor's subscription was obtained, 
and when her name had been added to the list of the faithfiil, she and 
Mrs. Delolme took leave of Mr. Terre. That Tom was overlooked by 
the reverend gentleman in this particular instance may be easily con- 
ceived. Mr. Terre took no notice at all of him: nor did Tom take even 
the slightest notice of Mr. Terre. He had no affection for him, and 
therefore passed him in an essentially stiff-necked style. He could have 
said something, but didn't: he handed the ladies into the carriage, and 
when he had entered himself, they drove off. 

"/sn'< he a nice man?" said Mrs. Delolme, addressing Aunt Eleanor, 
as they proceeded. 

'f Yes, he is, for a shall party,'' said Tom. 

" Thomas!" cried Mrs. Delolme, with an Mtpression of ferocity. -^I 
did not addrjBSS myself to you. If you were half so kind, h^ so vir- 
tuousy half so amiable, hahf so pure, as the interesting person vidiom we 
have just left, you would be indeed a comfort to a mother's heart; but 
I fear that you are a reprobate." 

" Dot a bit of it,*' said Tom. "I'b a victib, but do reprobate. A 
reprobate, bother, is a bad abaddoded to wickeddess. I ab do repro- 
bate. As to the idterestidg creature we have just left, you'll fidd hib 
out by add bye, I've do doubt, add the sooder you do so the better. Add 
dow," he added, " I thidk that I bay as well get out, I'b odly idterruptidg 
the codversatiod here, add I have a call to bake of sobe ibportadce." 

As Mrs. Delolme had no other interesting creature to introduce him 
to, she offered no opposition to his leaving: the carriage was therefore 
stopped, and Tom alighted, more than ever intent on purchasing that 
machine which was at once to prove his innocence and enable liim to 
be revenged on the author of all his present troubles. 

For some time after Mrs. Delolme, Aunt Eleanor, and Tom had left 
the house, Sylvester was amused by the anatomical curiosities and 
lively conversation of the doctor, but having at length been summoned 
in haste to attend a patient, the doctor, though with manifest reluctance, 
left Sylvester to amuse himself in the library alone. 

This, for a time, Sylvester managed to do; but while reading a|i 
elaborate treatise on the Functions of the Brain, he fell asleep, and com- 
menced dreaming on the subject of Aunt Eleanor's marriagCr-r-a subject 
which had never before entered his imagination. 

A gentleman, he conceived had proposed to Aunt Eleanor— -a g^itle- 
man of wealth and station — a fine portly gentleman, who wore at 
the time — Sylvester saw him distinctly! — a blue coat, with yellow metal 
buttons, a large white waistcoat, a large bunch of seals, black silk 
pantaloons, and Hessian boots. WeU; Aimt Eleanor had not rejected 
this proposal; nor had she by any means accepted it; no, she had 
taken time to consider. She liked his manners very well; they were 
graceftd and elegant; she had been moreover induced to admire his 
character; he was wealthy, philanthropic, amiable, and kind, and had 
gained the esteem of all who knew him. There was, however, one 
circumstance-— only one circumstance-^ which induced her to passes 



TSfi SOlfifAIIBHLIBT. 1S5 

BbB duNigfat him too stout — much too stout! In Sylvester's view thwe 
was nodiing about him particulaiiy bulky: he didn't object to his 
appewaoce at ail c on the contrary, he conceived him to be a remaikably 
fine man — ^handsome, full of health, and extremely well-jHroportietted. 
Still Aunt; £ieaaor thought him too stout, and therefore took time to 
coosider. 

Hie aqme changed; and Sylvester opened his eyes; but he was th^ 
as soundly asleep as before, and having put the treatise aside, he mended 
a pen, and deliberately wrote the following letter: — 

'^ My dear aunc desires me to inform you that she has an li^B, (^ 
entering into the marriage st^te. She h^s nojb exactly rnade up her 
mind, nor wUl she imtil she has had the picture of seeing yoUf She is 
a^op4 to consult you. She imagines that the gentleman who has pro- 
posed to l|er ig somewhat too stout; and as she has always had the vei^y 
highest confidence in your judgjnent, she yrishes to have your opi|iion 
iipoiiL the point, before any filial answer is given. 

" independently of whicTi, she most earnestly hopes that, if the mar- 
riage should take place, you will do her the favour to perform the 
ceremony* 

" J am, dear sir, 

** Yours faithfully an4 afifectionately, 

"Syj.vj;steb SotJirp." 

This letter he directed to the Reverend Mr. Rouse, and having sealed 
it, rang ^e bell. 

** James,'* said he, as the servant entered, " be kind enough to take 
this letter to the post. Go with it immediately.*' 

^* I will, sir," said James, who had no more idea of his being asleep, 
than he had of opening the letter to see what- it contained, 

fifylvester closed his ^es again, and, as the letter was off his mind, his 
sleep may be said to have been more profound, and thus he continued to 
sle^ in his chair until Tom returned yrith a naan-trap. 

*•* Hollo, Syl!" cried Tom, as he entered the library. " Asleep t'^ 

'^ I was ft)r a mc»nent," said Sylvester, rubbing his eyes, 

'*I say; here's the bachide," said Top, })ointing to the man-trap. 
"That's the sort of thidg, eh? It strikes be that'll hold hib." 

^' He'll not inm a very great distance with it, J think," returned 
Sylvester. 

"If he does, I'll forgive hib!" cried Toni» "Look here; capital 
teeth!" 

" Rather rusty," said Sylvester. 

'^ So buch the better," cried Tom. " But just help us up stairs with 
it. Th^ bustd't see it. We'll take it idto the study, add thed all will 
be safe." 

Sylvester accordingly assisted him up with it, and when they had 
affixed the chain to a staple near the window, and locked it, they tried 
it agdn ajad again, with the view of making sure that a man's foot 
would have the desired efiect. Having satisfied themselves upon thid 



Id6 8YLVEATER SOUin> 

important point, they began to sort the bones of the female skeleton, and 
thus busied themselves until dinner was announced, when they rushed 
into their rooms with the view of preparing to meet the awftd aspect of 
Mrs. Delolme. 

The dinner, but for the doctor, would have been dull indeed. He 
infiised a little gaiety into the proceedings, and occasionally elicited a 
spark of spirit from Aunt Eleanor, to whom Mrs. Delolme appeared as 
if all her natural feelings had been smothered. 

Very soon after dinner the ladies withdrew, and then Tom, in a most 
comic manner, explained all that occurred at the house of Mr. Terre. 

" I shouldd't have cared," he added, having described the scene, " if 
he hadd't beed a parsed. I should have beed bore at hobe, especially 
whed he addressed be — * Youdg badl' This cobbedcebedt did certainly 
double be up, add if he hadd't beed a bidister I should, do doubt, have 
told hib exactly what I beaddt; but, as it was, by respect for his order 
codtrolled be, add caused be to feel that we were dot od equal terbs." 

The doctor felt exceedingly annoyed at the fact of Tom having been 
placed in this humiliating position; but he made no important remark: 
he laughed, indeed, at Tom's quaint description of the scene; but while 
he wished liiat it had not occurred, he thought it wise to conceal his real 
feelings, lest his acknowledgment of the folly of the mother might tend 
to diminish the respect of the son. He therefore changed the subject 
as soon as possible, and when eight o'clock had arrived, Tom, accom- 
panied by Sylvester, went to his lecture, having securely locked his 
study door. 

Now much has been said about love at first sight. Some have held 
it to be impossible ; while others have contended for its being an3rthing 
but. It seems strange that this point should not have been, until the 
very period of which we write, settled! — very strange. But it was not. 
It was a perfectly open question until Julia Smart, the bar-maid, saw 
Sylvester with Tom, when it was, beyond all dispute, settled for ever! 

She saw him, and loved him. Had she been the mighty mistress of 
a world, and that world had been studded with brilliants, she would 
freely have given it for him. He had said nothing — done nothing- 
calculated to fascinate, or having the slightest tendency to inspire feelings 
of affection ; he had, in fact, scarcely opened his lips to her ; still she 
loved him — ^fondly, fervently loved him. 

She knew that his name was Sylvester. That she had ascertained 
from Tom; and from that happy moment, Sylvester to her was the 
dearest name of which she had ever heard. iSylvester was continually 
on her lips. She even loved to hear the name of Sylvester soimded. 
Sylvester! In her judgment, what name could be comparable with that? 
She slept, and dreamt of Sylvester. She awoke, and thought of Syl- 
vester. Sylvester stood in imagination before her. Her blessings were 
lavished upon the head of Sylvester. Her prayers were for Sylvester 
— dear Sylvester — and she pronounced the name of Sylvester through- 
out the day. 

Wheii, therefore, in the evening, Tom, as usual, after the lecture, had 
been induced to go to the house, at the bar of which she presided, she 



THE SOMKAMBITLIST. 197 

^^tperieneed, as Sylvester entered, mingled feelings of embarrassment 
and joy. At first she turned pale — deadly pale — and then, in an in- 
stant, her face and neck were crimson. She tried to speak to him, but 
could not: and while her bosom heaved with emotion, her lips quivered 
coiiyulsively as she returned his graced bow. 

Sylvester perceived this — ^had he failed to perceive it his perceptive 
faculties would have been indeed dull — ^he perceived it at once, and 
marvelled. She had interested him the previous evening, but the 
interest he then felt was really intense. Their eyes met constantly: 
both tried to avoid this but neither could do it: one could not glance at 
the other without being glanced at in return. The principle of reci- 
procal attraction was never more clearly defined. 

At length, embracing an opportunity, she approached him, and, in 
trembling accents, expressed an earnest hope that she should frequently 
have the pleasure of seeing him — ^hinted at the happiness of which his 
presence was the source, and then, taking ofi* her most valuable ring, 
begged of him, with an expression of fervour, to accept and to keep it 
in remembrance of her. 

Sylvester was manifestly reluctant to do this. He did not at all like 
to take the ring, and explained to her that he couldn't think of doing so 
for a moment. 

"Pray do," she exclaimed, " for my sake; it will give me more plea- 
sure than I can express." 

"Well," said Sylvester, "if I take it, it must be on this condition, 
that you accept from me a present of equal value in return." 

" I will do so," she earnestly replied ; " I care not for the value — ^the 
intrinsic value — anything that I may keep—" 

" Hollo!" cried Tom, gaily, who, turning at that moment, saw them in 
close conversation. "We are dot goidg to stadd that, you kdow: I call 
it a bodopolyl" 

Julia smiled, and on the instant retreated. 

" Well, I say," continued Tom, " tibe's up.*' 

" Fm quite ready," said Sylvester. 

"WeU, thedwe'Utrot." 

Tom then proceeded to bid his friends adieu, and while he was doing 
80, Sylvester — ^who felt at the time, somewhat embarrassed — ^bowed 
gracefully to Julia, who bowed with equal grace in return. 

" Well, good bye," said Tom, addressing Julia; " good bye." 

Julia again smiled, for she felt very happy, and Tom followed Syl- 
vester out. 

"Fide girl, isd't she?" said Tom. "Out add out. There's do bis* 
take about her — ^a regular brick!" 

" She appears to be very amiable," said Sylvester. 

" She has a good heart, Syl — ad excelledt heart. I'll just tell yoU 
what she did a short tibe ago. Wud of our fellows had spedt all his 
buddy. He was a rattler to go alodg, add whedever he had buddy he 
bade it fiy. Well, the tibe was cobe for hib to prepare id eardest 
to pass ; but he foudd that he couldd't raise buddy edough eved to pay 
few his ^didg— " 



186 sYLvnivnt m&bwb 

'' Owt momeiit/* ioterraptod fiyivesierc ^' what do you meaa by kis 
grinding?'' 

'' Why, uriied a bad is dot sure of passidg-^r^ bad cad be sure — but 
what I b€»d IB, whfid he thidks it at all probable that he shall be plueked, 
he goes to a gridder, whose busidess it is to put to hib those questiods 
whidi be iba^des tape host likely to be asked', add to crab hib witii the 
adaweif , that he bay dot, whed he goes up, be buch at a loss. Wdl i he 
conldd't praise the baddy. He had borrowed of every fellow who had 
buddy to ledd, while ha was able to get dode irob hobe, fbr his botiier, 
who wa^ a widow, he had by his extvaragadce ibpoverished already. 
What thed was to be dode? Udless he passed, he was raided fbr ever ! 
He tried— constadtly tried every bad whob he kdew: still he could get 
do buddy, add absolute starvatiod stared hib id the face. Fprtudately, 
whed tie foadd hibself vedaced to die last extrebity, Julia heiu?d of tiie 
ciroubstadce, add aedt £at hib, add delicately oiSared to ledd hib the buddy, 
provided he applied it to do oth^ piupose. He probised her solebdly 
that he would diH, add she ledt hib die buddy: she ledt hib suffi^iedt, 
dot odly to pay for his grididg, but to go up both to the College add die 
HalWto pay li>r his lodgidgs, add to eany hib hobe. 

^^ He has r^aid her, I hope?" said Bylvestar, 

''Yes! he has repaid her! He would have beed a scouddrel if he 
hadd't. He dot o41y repaid her, but^si-as he jubpt idto a capijBl prac- 
tice — ^he offered to marry her! But do; she reft^sed his ofier cod^ 
JC^ividg diat » bad, who would recklessly ruid his bother, wouldd't have 
buch regard &r the &eUdgs of his wi&. Oh ! she's up to ^ thidg or two, 
'Trrdowd AS a babber; codverse with 1^, add you'll fidd she's dot a cob* 
bod style of girl." 

^^ She app^a^ to have had a good edueatioa/' 

^' A good educadod; she's highly accomplished. I bet h^ at a party 
wud dight, add really her badders are elegadt id the extrebe. I was 
perfectly astodished. She plays well, dadoes well, sidgs well, codverses 
well! If I had dot kdown ijer, I should have said, that's a lady, add do 
bistake. She was out add out the best graced creature id the roob." 

" I am amazed, then," Sylvester, " that she is in that position." 

'* 3y boy," said Tom, gravely, '^ a gbl who has deither a father dor a 
&iedd, has dot the ehoice of her owd positiod. She has deither a father 
dor a friedd-*rrl bead a fiiedd hayidg the power to probote her idt^^ts 
baterially. What thed is she to do? If she eddeavour to get a birth as 
a govj^dojBS, the ohadses foee a huddred to wud agaidst her ; add if eved 
she succeed, what is a goverdess? A creature dobidally above, but id 
reality, far below a bedial s^:^adt. Do bedial would put up with wud 
half the codtubely that she is cobpeUed to put up with. Her life is, id 
fact, a two-edged sword. She has bwe to bear, with less power to bear 
it, A word that would woudd h^ feelidgs, would, upod a bedial, have 
do effect, while a bedial would dot eddure half the idsults which are 
with ibpudity heaped upod herJ^ 

i^ I see,'^ said Sylvester, " I see." 

i^ Very well, thed; what's a girl like that to do ? For years she has 
had ad aged bother to support, add she does support her like a t»iak. But 



THB u>mnMamiafT. 169 

fimdd she liave supported her had die heed a gi^erdess ? Oouid she 
have suppcHTted her by plyidg her deedle frob biddight to biddight? 
Bol — shie dierefbre berged all scruples, add took this bertii. 'iBiey 
pay her well, doubtless, for she has saved a little buddy. It is dot ex- 
afitiiy the tladg, p^ii^vs, £or so delicate a bide, as I bdieve hi^ to be; 
but she ke^ her bother, she keeps herself; liie ead jalwap )(£^ a 
twedty poudd dote id her pocket; add I therefiMre shooid like to aae the 
bad who could, udder the circubstadces, blabe her for beidg what she is. 
/There's do dodsedce about hi^, you see; dtx will she stadd ady dod- 
sedce. She'll laugh add joke wim the best of jj^ ; but if you wudee ib« 
properly step over the linis, she will delicately idtibate to you diat Ihat 
ibproper step has beed bade. It is hedce, that she's so udivenally 
respected. I dever id my life bet with a &llow who didd't like her." 

^hey fiow reached home, and oh being admitted, Uiey went direct 
into the drawing-room, where Mrs. Delolme, Aunt £leiuun:, and the doc- 
tor were taking cofiee. The doctc»r, at once inquired, what sort of 
lecture they had heard, and Tom, promptly ei^lained to him, its natture 
and effect. It happened to be on a subject vidi which the doatos him- 
self was not perfectly conv^sant, and tfaerefc»re, the books were preferred 
to, in order that the whole of its ramifications might appear. The ex- 
amination of these books, and the arguments to which diat examination 
led, lasted nearly two hours ; dxiring the whole of which time, Mrs. De- 
lolme and Aunt Eleanor were discussing the respective merits oi the 
vadous tract societies, to the whole of which Mrs. Delolme ccmtended 
evefy christian lady ought to subscribe. 

Immediately, however, the clock had struck twieive, the books were 
closed, and the conversation ended. Mrs. Delolme rang Ihe bell, and 
the servants appeared ; and when they had taken their places, she read 
the prayers cf the evening, in tones, by which, in the time of Oliver 
Cromwell, the puritans would have been charm^. 

This G^emony ended, the servants withdrew, and when Tom and 
Sylvester had taken their leave, they retired— nominally to rest, but 
actually to the study; at the door of which^atsas James couldn't get in--^ 
they found a cold chicken, foKrr-as it subsequently aj^eareds^-a pigeon 
jjHe was not to be had. This, however, answffl^ed ihe purpose v^ well ; 
and when Tom had |H?oduced two bottles ai stout, they eon^nenqed in 
style, the work of demolition. 

Being anxious to have the benefit of his opinion upon the subject, 
Sjdvester now thought that he would at once explain to Tom what had 
occurred that evening between him and Julia. 

*^ Tom," said he, ^'you know the worid b^t(^ than I do; you have 
had more experience ; you are a naore close observerr-r^" 

*^ Here take this leg," said Tcmi, ^< there isd^t buch od it, add dod't let 
us have ady bore fide speeches." 

^f But I wish to put a que8tioBL-«4i smous qfiesti€»rv^fa questi^ which 
fou-^an, but I cannot, answer." 

"Ady thidg about adatoby?" 

**No." 

"Whatisit,thedr 



140 STLVESTER SOUKD 

"Fll explain. Suppose that one of these evenings, Julia, of whom 
you have been speaking to night, were to take her most valuable 
ring from her finger, and beg your acceptance of it; would you ac- 
cept it?" 

" Suppose," replied Tom, " that this chicked, which we have just beed 
pullidg literally Ubb firob libb, were to start up whole, add, shakidg its 
feathers, ask us what o'clock it was; would you tell it ?" 

" Nay, that's impossible!" 

" I hold the wud case to be just as possible as the other. Were I to 
ask her to accept a ridg, there wouldd't be a great deal of doubt about 
the batter ; but the idea of her askidg be to accept wud of her, is too rich 
for ady bad's stobach." 

" I don't know that," returned Sylvester calmly ; " I merely said, sup- 
pose — ^I put it so — suppose she were earnestly to beg your acceptance of 
a ring, would you have it?" 

"Well, I dod't exactly kdow— but I thidk I should." 

"You think you would! come to the point; would you or would you 
not, under such circumstances refuse it ?" ' 

"Do, I wouldd't," repUed Tom; " I'd take it." 

"Very well. Now, while you were conversing with your friends this 
evening, she begged of me to accept this ring, and to keep it in remem- 
brance of her." 

" Is it possible ! What Julia !" 

" Yes. I at first refused; but at length I consented to accept it, on 
condition that she would allow me to present her with something of 
equal value. She agreed to this, and here is the ring. Now what do 
you think of it?" 

"Why, you abaze be! I thought there was sobethidg goidg od at 
the tibe! — ^but I couldd't have ibagided this possible. I say, by boy," 
he added, gravely, "be careful. This towd is studded with rub uds!" 

"But she is most amiable: have you not said? — ^kind hearted and 
virtuous?" 

"I do dot believe that there's a bore virtuous girl id the udiverse! 
Still she bay be artful. She bay have sobe latedt desigd: what I be- 
lieve her to be add what she is, bay be diabetrically opposite. All I say 
is, by boy, be od your guard. This bay be but a draw. Dod't be 
fixed. Were she id a bore respectable positiod, it wouldd't batter so 
buch, but as it is-^" 

"A more respectable position!" echoed Sylvester. "Is it not respect 
able in the correct sense of the term? and have you not shown that none 
can blame her for being, under the circimistauces, in that position?" ^ 

"Yes, by boy: still, the sphere frob which a bad takes a "wife is 
looked at bore thad that id which he hibself bay have boved." 

" Oh !" exclaimed Sylvester, " do not imagine I'm going to marry the 
girl! Don't imagine that I'm in love with her! for I am not! She's 
very amiable, very elegant, very fascinating, and very graceful, but as 
for being in love with her ! — the idea never entered my imagination." 

"I'b glad to hear it," said Tom. " All I said was — add all I wish to 
repeat is-^-be od jour guard!" 



THE SOMNAMBULIST. 141 

"Of course," said Sylvester, "you see the propriety of not mentioning 
this circumstance to any creature living." 

"If you kdew be better, by boy," replied Tom, "you wouldd't thidk 
that observatiod at all decessary. But dow for the bachide," he added, 
going to the trap. " Let's set this gedtlebad, add thed we'll go to bed." 

" You'll lock the door when we go out, of course?" suggested Sylvester. 

"Do! dot a bit of it! It bay, you kdow, be wud of our fellows. If 
we leave the door oped, we shall catch hib either way — dod't you see?" 

Sylyester acknowledged the wisdom of pursuing that course, and they 
set the trap, so that the slightest touch would cause the spring to operate 
at once ; and when Tom had earnestly expressed his conviction that 
that machine would vindicate his honour, he set aside the things and 
saw Sylvester to his room, at the door of which, he bade him adieu for 
the night. 



CHAPTER XVm. 



THE MAN-TRAP. 



That night, Ninety-nine kept a sharp look-out: his look-out, in 
feet, was remarkably sharp: he never looked out more sharply. He 
crept into door-ways, peeped round comers, and ran behind cabs, that 
he might not be seen. He was very wide awake — ^nay enthusiastic! 
Didn't he wish for about half a chance!— didn't he pray for Tom's 
appearance upon the parapet ! He had, it is true, been paid for the 
blow he received from Tom on the preceding night; but he panted for 
revenge ! Revenge was his object: the attaipment of which would have 
made him happy. Oh ! if he could but have caught him ! — ^but he 
couldn't: he couldn't see him: he couldn't see any one there. Still, he 
inspired a most lively hope — ^the hope of catclung him some blessed 
night in a state of intoxication. Wouldn't he serve him out then— 
wouldn't he stick his knuckles into his throat — ^wouldn't he knock him 
about with his truncheon — ^wouldn't he drag him to the station like a 
dog ! Perhaps he wouldn't — ^which, being interpreted, means that there 
was nothing apocr3rphal about it. That night, however, he was doomed 
to disappointment. The object of his hot and inextinguishable hate 
would not even appear at the window — ^he, therefore, concluded that he 
was afraid, and said so, with an air of triumph. 

The morning came. Tom had slept soundly. He had not been dis- 
turbed: he had heard no noise. He, therefore, on waking, feared that 
he should not have the power that day of taking his honour out of the 
gaol of suspicion, knowing well that his mother would not accept bail. 
He, however, thought it right to go up and have a look, and having 



142 STLYBflnB SOUNIf 

BhpjpfsA on h» ^ingty ke did go up^ and beheld mik amftzemett^ his 
man — ^his own man — ^his own skeleion-^ixi the trap, leaning ddiberatdjr 
vtpan the till of thef open window vfi^ a book in its hand, a G^tman 
pipe In itft motith|\imd an empt^ sto^t bottle and glass br its side. 

Tdm looked-^i^ ctmtie he koked I^^^but he looked wito An expression 
of BBBgkfd manrel and Bmrth. He eonldn*t tell at aU whut to m^e 6f it. 

"I fajr^ &A felWf" he at lehgth eiwlaimed, "Wha€ are you tip to 
th«rer 

Th^ fkelekm answered him iiot. 

« Yefa «eeb/" said Tom^ "to be deac^ ^ rathcj? bfO^dP 

The ftk^ton made no ic^. 

" Hare ^on h^ joia le^ at all^ old fellolr?"^ 

The ftkeleicta imdntftined ii most oontemptaons silende. 

"Well," said Tom, "if ever there was a rub go this is wudf *' and, 
approaching the skeleton, he burst into a loud roar of laughter. 

" Syl must see this," said he, as soon as the first burst had subsided; 
and rushing down, he dashed into Sylvester's room, and, on finding 
him asleep, shook him violently. 

"What's the matter? "WOiat's the matter?" cried Sylvester. 

"Here's a go, by boy!^-cobe alodg." 

" Have you caught him?" 

"Yes, he^8 id the trap!— cobe alodg." 

Sylvester instantly drew on his trousers and followed Tom, who con- 
tinued to roar. 

" There you are I" said Tom, as Sylvester entered the study. " There 
he i»! 'ihat'a <he sf#e!!!-^fadt ^s a four-year-old! That's a go, isd't 
it? Wlia*A)youihidkofthat?" 

SyhreUki kne# not exactly tuhlH t6 think of it ! H6 thought it very 
odd. H*^ examttied the ftk^ieton firom head to foot. Its leg was ^xed 
in the tra^ fkst enoftgh-^but how did it get thei-e? That was the only 
problem to be solved. 

"It's very strange," said he. "I caii't understand it!" 

"Udderstadd it!" cried Tom, "who cad? Sttrely this was dot the 
sWeH that WJte ciittidg his cape^ od the parapet! Yet it seebs as if he'd 
b6ed abbut to rep^t the sabe gafbe, got cau^t, ^d thed ibagided that 
h6 bight tts w6n edjoy hibself id this way as dot! As to his sbokidg: 
that's hubbug. He hasd't th6 bfellows to do it." 

"Nof could he iold much stout," said Sylvester, "and yet the bottle's 
emphr." 

"There's sobe trick hete," satid Totfi, "safe to be a trick. But dod't 
touch hib^let hib be as ie is. The govef dor ^all see hib : perhaps 
Mil be abie to bak^ sobfethidg ottt of it. Let's go add dress: by that 
tibe he'll b6 ddi^d, D<yw,^' h? added, addressing the skeleton, " if you 
have ady bore of your dodsedce-^if you bove to yottr old quarters, be- 
fore i;^e cobe back agaid^^I'fl burder you." 

They then left the tooitt, stUA having locked the door securely, pro- 
ceeded t6 dress ; and when that job had been simultaneously achieved, 
they W^ttt down stairs together, and found in the breakfast-parlottr 
Mrs. 1)ek/littj Atmi Mettoat] and the doctor. 




^^ .y^/^ ^^yyyy^' 



THB SOMNiOIBULiaT. 148 

"OflOy just oobe up/' said TohI| addressiDg the doetor^ '^odly eobe. 
Sttok a gab&t'* 

''What is amiss?*' inquired Mrs. Delohne. 

" Odly oobe idto by study. IVe oaugbt hib." 

"You have?" cried the doctor. 

<'Just eobe add look." 

The doctor followed him and Sylvester on the instant, and Mrs. 
Delohne took the arm of Aunt Eleanor and hastily followed the doctor. 

Havii^ reached the room door^ Tom unlocked it at once, and having 
thrown the door open, exclaimed^ <' There dow^ what do you ihidk of that?" 

The doctor looked at the skeleton and smiled/ 

"What is all this?" said he; "what is the meaning of it, Tom?" 

"The beadidg," replied Tom, "is this. Beidg adbdotis to catch that 
idsade swdl who t^as euttidg about the other dight od the parapet, 
I bought this bachidci add havidg set it last dight/ this is sil I, at fnre- 
sedt, hare gcf^ for by btiddy<" 

" Oh ! lliomas— Thomaar cried Mrs. D^lme, raising, her hands in 
a state of mind bordering on despair^ 

"What's the batter?" said Tom. 

"Oh I" replied Un. Delohne, with a sigh. "Oh! Thomas— Thoinas." 

"Why, what do you bead?" 

"That ever I should have such a son!" 

"Very good," said Tom; "but what is it you bead?" 

"Do you m^an to say," replied Mrsv Delohney "Thomas! Do you 
mean to say that you did not yowHlf place thai %ure ^ere, in order 
that we Btiight belWe ^lat it caused that unhattowed distHtbanoe the 
night before last?" 

" WeU," exclaimed Tom, "that beats ali I'd better go to bed add 
sleep, add keep there. I'b victibised €fvert way. Wfant! Do you bead 
to say that you believe that I could bake byself sodi a oodsubbate dod- 
key as to cobe up here id the biddle of the dight to place by bad id 
such a positiod as that^ to idspi^ the belief that it was he who was 
etitfidg about od the parapet?" 

Of all people on earth religious enthusiasts are at once the most 
credukms and the inost sceptical: they readily believe everything 
ascribable to hmnan natore that is vile, and as readily disbelieve every- 
thing connect«i with human nature that is good. Itfrs. Delohne, there- 
fore, did believe that Tom had placed the skeleton there with a view to 
deceive them, and when she had told him that she believed this, Tom 
said that he was done. 

"I'll dot say adother word," he added ^ "dot adother syllable. If 
you'll believe that, there's dothidg bad you'll dot believe." 

"Of course," said the doctor^ "you found this skeleton in that 
position?" 

" Of course I did," replied Tom. " Do you thidk that I should be 
sueh ad idiot as to throw away by buddy upod this bachide for the pur- 
pose of stickidg by bad id it thus? I caU it hard to be suspected id 
tins badder: very hard; it isd't the thidg — ^it's dothidg like the thidg; 
iw«d'tlNrreh!«' 



144 STLYESTBB SOUND 

<' Ify 88 yon say," observed the doctor — ^' and Fve not the slightest 
doubt you speak the truth, Tom — iff as you say, you found things as 
they are, there is something mysterious about it." 

*' I deckre to you, upod by hodour," said Tom, " that thidgs were as 
they are whed I edtered the roob, add that frpb the tibe Syl add I left 
it last dight, till I foudd the thidgs here as they are, I dever got out of 
by bed." 

'' Oh, / am quite satii^ed, Tom," said the doctor, "as far at least as 
you are concerned; but it's strange — ^very strange! Just ring the bell." 

The bell was rung and James appeared. 

" James," said the doctor, " have you been in this room during the 
night?" 

" Me, sir? No, sir. 

" Now, speak the truth. Jib," said Tom, fiercely, " or I pitch you out 
of the widdow od suspiciod." 

" Upon my word, sir, I haven't: I haven't as true as Fm alive." 

"Very weU," said the doctor ; " that will do." 

James then retired, and they looked at each other with varied ex- 
pressions of doubt and dismay. 

" It is," observed Sylvester, " of course, inconceivable that the skele- 
ton coidd have got there by itself." 

" As idcodceivable," said Tom, " as that he was the swell who was 
cuttidg about od the parapet." 

"What is the meaning of this?" inquired Aunt £leanor. "Tou 
speak of a person having been on the parapet. What do you mean." 

" Since you know so much, dear," replied Mrs. Delolme, " I'll explain 
all to you by and bye." 

"Well," said the doctor, "I can make nothing of it at present 
Perhaps after break£i8t some light may appear. Come," he added, " let 
us go down. Lock the door, Tom, and keep the key in your pocket." 

Tom did so, and as they were going down stairs, he said privately to 
Sylvester, " Victibised agaid! Sure to have the luck of it! If there's 
ady luck stirridg, I'b just as safe to have it as St. Paul's Churchyard is 
to have the widd." 

Now it strangely enough happened, that while they were at breakfast, 
the Rev. Mr. Rouse was at breakfast too, and it also happened that he 
had no sooner finished his first cup of coffee than Sylvester's letter 
arrived. 

"London," said he, musingly looking at the post-mark; "from that 
kind creature of course! And yet," he added, turning to the super- 
scription, "it is not her writing. Tut! bless my life; now whose hand 
can it be? I've seen it before! — I know the hand well! — ^well, now, 
that's very strange. The seal too— a boar's head — that is not her crest! 
But the writing! — ^that's the point! Now whose can it be?" 

The reverend gentleman took up an egg — ^not conceiving that that 
would assist him ; but he took up an egg and broke it, chiefiy in order 
that his memory might have some refireshment. But no : that memory 
of his failed hun: he could not remember whose writing it was, nor 
coidd he conjecture ; but as it occurred to him, at length, that if he were 



THE S0BCKAKBU1I6T. 145 

to break tlie seal he might in an instant ascertain, he opened the letter, 
and when he saw from whom it came, he at once recollected the hand. 

But of all the extraordinary expressions into which a man's counte- 
nance ever yet was tortured, his were the most extraordinary, and at the 
same time perhaps the most rapidly varied, when he saw what that letter 
contained. 

Having read the first sentence — ^which opened the whole case — ^he 
turned to the fire and violently poked it. lie then read the next, and, 
albeit the word " stout " provoked something like a smile, while the ex- 
pression of the highest confidence in his judgment was, as far as it went, 
agreeable, the strongest feelings he experienced — the feelings which pre- 
vailed — ^the feelings which were in the ascendant tlu'oughout — ^were those 
of wonder and vexation. He knew not why he should be vexed. It 
was amazing, certainly — at least, to him it appeared amazing — that she 
should have entertained the thought of entering into the marriage state : 
but then why should the circumstance vex him? He really couldn't 
tell. He didn't know. And yet one of the strongest feelings with which 
it had inspired him was that of vexation. 

"Tut! bless my life!" he exclaimed; "who would have thought it? 
Tcha!— well! — married. Bless my heart alive. Tche! — ^What a 
singular thing! Married! God bless me. Tcha! — ^I must be off, sir! — 
be off! Tchu! the strangest thing I ever heard of. Tche! — I never 
was more surprised. Well, that does astonish me. Tcha! — Bless my 
soul. Well, so it is! There's no time to be lost!" 

Having delivered himself fitfully thus, the reverend gentleman rang 
the bell, and when he had hastily directed the servant to fill his cai-pet- 
bag with shirts, stockings, shoes, cravats, shaving machinery, and so on, 
he wrote a note to a reverend friend in the vicinity, requesting him to 
officiate during his absence. 

Again he rang the bell. 

" Tell Jones," said he, when the servant appeared, " to put the horse 
in. I'm going to town. Tell him to be quick, or we shall miss the 
coach!" 

He then went up to dress ; and when all had been prepared, he dashed 
through the village at a more rapid rate than he had ever dashed through 
that village before. 

"Hollo!" said Obadiah, as he and Pokey saw him pass. "What's 
Ted up to now? There's something in the wind. You saw his carpet- 
bag, didn't you? What's the odds he isn't going after his Rosalie? I'll 
bet you what you like, she's been down here, incog! — ^I'll bet you what 
you like, he has seen her, and finding that he couldn't cany his games 
on in a place like this ^vithout exciting observation, sent her to London, 
where he is off to now! Come, I'll bet you what you like of it — come I" 

" He's off somewhere," said Pokey. 

" Of course, he is! And isn't it disgusting? Isn't it enough to make 
one's hair stand on end? I see it all clearly. It fructifies in my mind 
readily enough. / see the manoeuvre. Yet these ai*c the men we bow 
and scrape to— these are the men we pamper and praise! But just 
look you here, if we haven't before long a rattler, my boy, FU eat grass 

L 



146 SYLVESTER SOUND 

like a cow! Sure to have it — safe — it must come: and do you mark 
my words, let it come when it will, all of that kidney may look out for 
squalls. What, do you suppose that, because Johnny Bull is an ass 
now, he'll be an ass always? The idea is rotten. No; just look you 
here now, and do you mind this : no sooner are the people's eyes a little 
matters open — no sooner have they got out the dust that has blinded 
them ever since Peter the Great's time — ^than doAvn comes a regular 
amalgamating battery, that'll stalk through the land, and sweep every- 
thing before it. There'll be no swindles — ^no petty-larceny plundering 
proud pick-pocketing pensioners — no placemen — ^no priestcraft — ^no 
poverty then: bribery and corruption will then be struck flat; and if 
ever they're suffered to rise again, it'll be the people's fault. We shall 
then see how such men as Teddy Rouse'U stand. They won't have 'em 
at no price — ^no more they don't ought. They'll be swept clean away — 
as old Boney once said, when he went out to welt the invaders — swept 
clean from the face of the earth, and sent after their French girls — ^their 
Eosalies — ^pretty dears I There, if I'd my will, I'd have a rope to reach 
from one steeple to another, and string 'em all up in a lump. I'd do it 
wholesale — I wouldn't mince the matter with them : I'd rid the earth of 
them at once, and then the mass of money which they swallow up 
woidd go into the pockets of the poor. As for Teddy Rouse — ^why, it's 
awful to see a man in his situation at this game. Here's a man running 
after French girls openly and in the face of day, and yet — ^look you here 
— ^we pay that man expressly to teach us moraUty. I mean to say it's 
monstrous. Isn't it, now, dreadful? When you come to look at it, isn't 
it disgusting?" 

** It's all very well what you say," repHed Pokey; " but you've been a 
preaching without any text!" 

" Text!" exclaimed Obadiah. " Ted is my text — corruption's my text 
— immoraUty's my text — ^national swmdling's my text — ^revolution's my 
text ! Everything's my text, when I see men like Teddy Rouse going at 
this rate." 

" At what rate?" 

" At what rate? Why, nmning after Rosalies !" 

" You don't know, in this case, that it is so." 

" Not know ! You'r^ a Tory : I always thought you were a Tory — 
not know?" 

" You only guess." 

" I'll tell you what I'll do: I'll bet you what you like of it!" 

" Bet me? You know I never bet." 

" 1*11 bet you five shillings of it: now, there !" 



" But how can you prove it?" 
"Never you mind — Fll prove it!*' 



" But when?" 

" Within eight-and-forty hours." 

" Then blame my buttons^'' cried Pokey, " if I don't take you. Ncnv 
then — ^there's my crown." 

"No, I sha'n't put down the money: let it be till the bet's decided, 
Mind you, I'm to prove that Ted's now gone to London," 



THE SOMNAMBULIST. 147 

" You ai^e to prove that lie's now gone after some girl, and that that 
girFs name is Rosalie." 

" Not a bit of it — there you quibble. No ; the bet's off — ^I'll not bet 
with any man who quibbles." 

" I don't at all quibble : but 1 didn't think you would make such a 
bet as that." 

" Look you here," said Obadiah ; " you'll tiu^n up a Tory — ^now mark 
you that. I've long had my suspicions ; but if you don't vote for the 
fructifying Tories, at the very next election, you'll wholly surprise me. 
Fm ashamed of you. Pokey, as true as I'm alive ; and so I'll leave you 
to your reflections. Good day." 

As Obadiah left, Pokey smiled; knowing well, that although he 
couldn't compete with him in talking, he had but to pin him to a point 
and he was done. 

During the whole of that moriung, Mrs. Delolme and Aunt Eleanor 
were conversing on the subject of supernatural appearances, which is at 
all times, and especially with the ladies, a prolific and highly interest- 
ing theme. The conversation sprang, of course, out of that morning's 
marvel ; and although Mrs. Delolme had entertained the belief that Tom 
had himself placed the skeleton there, she felt herself eventually con- 
strained to admit that it was possible — just possible — that the spirit 
which formerly inhabited that skeleton had caused it to walk to the win- 
dow alone. She would, however, give no opinion on the point: that 
she reserved until she had consulted Mr. Terre. She was sure that he 
would be able to settle the question ; and, as she felt that he was in- 
spired — as she rehgiously believed that he had divine authority for every 
word he uttered — ^it was, in her judgment, altogether impossible that 
any opinion which he might express upon cmy subject could be wrong. 
She, therefore, calmly waited to consult her oracle. But the feelings of 
Aunt Eleanor were of a more distressing caste : the mystery affected her 
far more deeply. The idea of a spirit — if a spirit it really were — ^follow- 
ing her thus, and being visible only when she was near — ^inspired her 
with the most intense feelings of alarm. Her thoughts again reverted 
to her broken-hearted brother. The death-bed scene was again before 
her: she again heard his last declaration of innocence; and as her former 
apprehensions, that, to comfort her, he had uttered a falsehood with his 
dying breath, again came strong upon her, her affliction was poignant in 
the extreme. This, however, she thought it prudent to conceal from 
Mrs. Delolme. She had no confidence in her judgment. She could not 
speak to her as to an affectionate friend ; she could not unbosom herself 
freely; she was not a friend to Avhom she could open her whole heart, 
knowing well that if she did, instead of deriving consolation, she should 
be rendered still more wretched. She was, therefore, on that point 
silent. She conversed, indeed, freely on the subject of supematui-al 
appearances in general, but the immediate source of her own peculiar 
sorrows she did not disclose. 

At the same time the doctor, Tom, and Sylvester were conversing on 
the same subject, but in a more philosophical strain, in the study. The 
idea of there being anything supernatural in the removal of the skeleton 
from the position in which it usually stood to the trap, they unanimously 



148 STLVESTER SOUND 

repudiated as belDg utterly absurd. They all felt that it had been re- 
moved by some one: on that point they had not the slightest doubt; 
the only question with them was, who had removed it? Various were 
their conjectiu*es, and, as is customary in such cases, very conflicting; 
but those which appeared to them to be most probable, wei-e at length 
reduced to two: one being, that it was a trick of one of the servants, and 
the other, that the thing had been done by the man whom the police- 
man saw the previous night on the parapet. The latter was suggested 
by Sylvester himself. 

"For," said he, "although it is clear that had he jumped straight 
down fix)m the wmdow he would have been caught in the trap himself, 
it is also clear that, by going on one side, or even over the trap, he must 
necessarily have escaped it. I have no doubt that he did either one or 
the other, and that, subsequently finding the trap set for him, he placed 
the skeleton in it, and made it assume the position in which it was 
found." 

" Well," said the doctor, " that certainly appears to be reasonable, as 
far as it goes ; but what could be the man*s object in coming here? That 
is the point which puzzles me." 

" It might be idleness merely," said Sylvester ; " or what, perhaps, he 
would call ftin. He is clearly a fancifid fellow. The position in which 
he placed the figures before, and especially that in which this is now, 
tend to prove that if his object be not purely fun, he imagines he has 
some fun in him.'* 

" If I catch hib," said Tom, " I'll show hib a Httle bore ftid. He 
shall hibself look fuddy, before IVe dode with hib." 

" Well," said the doctor, " we have come to this point, and it appears 
to be the most reasonable at which we can arrive. We must endeavour 
now to prevent a recui-rence of these tricks, and I think that we shall 
at once attain that object by having the window barred." 

" Doe," said Tom, " dod't bar the widdow yet. I wadt to catch hib ; 
add that I shall catch hib, I'll bet ted to wud." 

" Well," said the doctor, smiling, " if you should happen to catch him, 
and you find that fun is his only object, you must, in the administration 
of your justice, be mercifld." 

" Oh ! ni be berciful," replied Tom. " Dothidg that he ever had id 
the shape of bercy shall surpass it. Ill give hib such ad out-add-out 
dose of bercy, that a bile off people shall hear hib proclaib how pecu- 
liarly bercifiil I ab." 

The doctor smiled, and left the study, when Tom and Sylvester re- 
placed the male skeleton in its former position, and busied themselves 
about the bones of the female, until they were summoned to diimer. 

As usual, the dinner went off flatly: for although the doctor chatted 
— and that sometimes gaily too — no one else did ; Mrs. Delolme would 
not; Aunt Eleanor could not; and while Tom dared not, Sylvester 
thought he ought not. When, therefore, the ladies had retired, not only 
Tom and Sylvester, but the doctor himself, felt much relieved, and, 
after a pleasurable and profitable discussion — ^profitable especially, in a 
professional point of view — Tom and Sylvester left to attend that even- 
Jtpg-'s lecture. 



TdE SOUSAitBVLl&f. i4d 

" Well," said Sylvester, on leaving the house, " what am I to present to 
this poor girl? The thing had better be done at once. What is it to be?" 

" Oh !" replied Tom, " bake her a presedt of adother ridg." 

" She appears to have an abundance of them already." 

" What id the jewellery lide has she dot ad abuddadce of?" retm-ned 
Tom; "chaids, brooches, decklaces, earridgs — ^I cad't thidk of adythidg 
of the sort that she has dot got." 

" Had she a bracelet on last night?" 

" The very thidg ! I rebebber dow she has doe bracelets." 

" Then we had better go and buy a pair at once." 

They went accordingly into the first jeweller's shop they came to, and 
having fixed upon a pair of a chaste and elegant pattern, they purchased 
them, and then went dii*ect to the hospital. 

Now, before they arrived — ^before they could have arrived there, a 
cab drew up to the door of Dr. Delolme, and when the driver had given 
his customary knock — a knock which quite frightened the occupant of 
the cab, who felt really very nervous on being announced in a style 
which he conceived to be so di^eadfully distingue — James came to the 
door, and then went to the cab, and, having satisfactorily answered two 
questions, was presented with the card of the Reverend Edward Rouse. 
James opened the door for the reverend gentleman to alight, and he 
alighted ; and drew out his piu'se. The fare was a shilling, but as he 
had been, by that knock, convinced that the driver conceived him to be 
some highly important personage, he gave him half a crown : which was 
very incorrect of the reverend gentleman, for, had that cabman known 
why the extra fare was given, he'd have subsequently split, if he hadn't 
smashed in, every door it became his duty to knock at. The reverend 
gentleman, however, imconscious of that fact, gave the half-crown, and, 
having followed James in, was sho^vn into one of the parlours. 

" Good gracious!" exclaimed Aunt Eleanor, when James had delivered 
the card; "is it possible?" 

" Anything the matter, my dear?" inquired Mrs. Delolme. 

"I fear there is something," replied Aimt Eleanor; "I very much 
fear it, for Mr. Rouse, of whom you have heard me speak, dear, has come 
unexpectedly from Cotherstone." 

"Indeed!" exclaimed Mrs. Delolme; "Tm quite delighted. Pray do 
not let him go, dear, until you have introduced him." 

Aunt Eleanor left the room ; and on entering the parlour, she at once 
grasped the hands of the reverend gentleman, with an expression of cor- 
diality mingled with apprehension. 

"My dear, dear friend!" she exclaimed. "Why, when did you arrive?" 

"I came by the coach," replied the reverend gentleman; "the same 
coach as that which you came by." 

"Well: I'm much pleased to see you: is all right at home?" 

"Oh! quite right: quite right! Why, really," he added, mth a play- 
ful expression, "you must, indeed you must, be very wicked, for since 
you left us, the village has been as tranquil as possible : no noises, no 
annoyances, no apparitions : no ; nothing at all of the sort." 

Aunt Eleanor was sad. She could have wept ; but would not do so then* 

"Well now," he continued, "I only came this evetdw^ V^\.\a^vj.^ 



160 STLYSSTKB SOUND. 

how d'ye do, and to let you know that I had anived*. I'll call in the 
morning: what time shall I call?" 

"Oh, as early as you please! but you are not going yet?" 

"Yes; ril call in the morning: we shall then be more tranquil. You 
have much to say to me, and I have much to say to you. In the morn- 
ing we'll talk over everything calmly." 

" But I really cannot permit you to leave me in such haste. Come 
into the drawing-room— come." 

" No, no, my dear madam ; you perhaps have a party." 

" No, indeed, we have not: there's only Mrs. Delolme, who is exceed- 
ingly anxious to be introduced to you. The doctor is imfortunately out 
now, but he will be in presently: Sylvester, too, vnR be in very soon: 
therefore, come, my dear sir — ^nay, you really must come. Mrs. 
Delolme, I know, will scold me, if you go without allowing me the 
pleasure of introducing you to her." 

" Well, my dear madam, if you are sure that I'm not intruding, I 
shall be happy to be introduced to that lady. I cannot," he added, 
pla3rlully, and at the same time pressing both her hands in a style which, 
for him, was extremely unusual, " I cannot — ^nor will I cause yoti to be 
scolded. I may scold you myself — ^that, perhaps, I may do — ^but you 
must not be scolded by any one else." 

Aunt Eleanor smiled — she didn't at all understand what he meant, 
still she smiled; and, having conducted him into the drawing-room, 
presented him at once to Mrs. Delolme, who received him, gracefully it 
is true, but with that excessive formality which freezes. The reverend 
gentleman was awed! The severity of her expression had at first the 
eiFect of blocking up all conversation. Aunt Eleanor, however, at 
length broke the ice, and until the return of the doctor a stream of reli- 
gious discourse flowed freely. 

While they were thus engaged, Tom and Sylvester were listening 
with laudable attention to a highly important pathological lecture, 
during the delivery of which neither Julia nor the bracelets were, for 
one moment, thought of At the conclusion, however, both were in- 
stantly remembered, and Sylvester, taking Tom's arm, proceeded at once 
to the bar of the Bull, accompanied, as usual, by half-a-dozen friends. 

As they entered, Julia was looking anxiously at the clock, for about 
the fiftieth time in the course of ten minutes, but when she saw Syl- 
vester, her heart leaped with joy, although she felt more than ever 
embarrassed. • 

Sylvester bowed and slightly smiled, and as he smiled she blessed him. 

Having managed, mechanically, to supply the demands of the noisy 
students, she retreated to the other end of the bar, when Tom, perceiving 
that Sylvester had not been supplied, cried, " Hollo, here! What do 
you bead? What's by friedd dode? Isd't he to have ady?" 

"Really," said Julia, coming forward in a tremor, and addressing 
Sylvester, " upon my word, I beg pardon : pray forgive me." 

" I see how it is," said Tom, as Sylvester was endeavouring to con- 
vince her that it really was a matter of no moment; "you are in love 
with Bob Topps." 

" Whjr, of course,'' cried Bob Topps, a short, stout, stumpy student^ 



THE SOMN11CBULI8T. 151 

who sported a comical conical hat! " That all the world knows. We are 
going to tie up as soon as I've passed." 

Julia smiled and retieated again. 

The students now entered into an animated discussion upon a point 
to which, in the course of the lecture, particular reference had been 
made, and when Sylvester found that they were much too intent upon 
the subject to notice him, he made a signal for Julia to approach. 

" Now," said he, " you must perform your promise by accepting these 
from me." 

Julia took the bracelets, placed them in her bosom, and pressed them 
to her heart, and having taken his hand with a fervent expression, 
exclaimed, " God bless you!" 

Tom, although apparently engaged in the discussion, saw all that 
passed, and shortly afterwards expressed himself precisely to this effect: 
" Dow, by boy, tibe's up, we bust bizzle — are you ready?" 

" Quite," returned Sylvester; ** quite." 

" Thed we'll be off. Good dight!" he added, addressing the students ; 
" I shall see you to-borrow." 

" To-borrow bordidg," said Bob Topps, " or to-borrow dight, Tob?" 

Hereupon there was a laugh — a loud laugh — among the students, and 
during its continuance, Sylvester shook hands with Julia, who was in 
consequence overjoyed, and having said, " Good night!" left the house 
ivith Tom. 

" ril tell you what it is," said Tom, " that girl's id love with you. 
Dothidg cad be clearer thad that. But it wod't do, Syl. Doe, that'll 
dever do." 

'' What will never do?" 

" Why, it'll dever do for you to be caught, Syl, id that trap." 

"Caught in that trapT echoed Sylvester. "There's an end of it. 
I have accepted a present from her, and she has accepted a present from 
me — that settles it." 

" Yes, by boy, that settles it certaidly as far as it goes ; but if you 
codtidue to go there, by boy, you'll cause her to believe that you are 
desperately id love with ^r." 

" Well, then, I had better go there no more." 

" Why doe bad has a right to cause a girl to believe that he's id love 
with her udless he intedds to barry her. 

" Very true : and as of coiurse I have no such intention, I had better 
not go there again." 

" Why I should say,^^ observed Tom, " that you'd ily at a Httle 
higher gabe thad a barbaid." 

" I have no contempt for her because she is a barmaid. That which 
you told me last night, Tom, convinced me that she ought now to be in 
a better position. I would not trifle with the feelings of such a girl ; 
I would not raise hopes which could never be realised. I am sorry now 
that I went there at all; but the matter is settled: I go there no more." 

" She's ad artfiil card do doubt," said Tom, " add if you give her a 
chadce she bay addoy you, which wouldd't be pleasadt: it wouldd't for 
idstadce be pleasadt at all were she to cobe sobe fide bordidg to have a 
chat with the old ladi«s ! * Where dd you liye^ dea;t V \i^ \y>»Ojss?si ^<ss^ 



152 StLt£8f£R 80UNP 

ask— 'At the Bull;— ' What's the Bull?'— * A public-house.'— * Add 
what are you, dear ?' — * Th the barbaid.' WoulddH the old swell oped 
her eyes ! Sedd I bay live, what a look she'd have for her ! Doe it 
wouldd't do at all to give her a chadce of goidg there, which she bight, 
add perhaps would do, to addoy you." 

That Tom did not do justice to Julia is clear, but he gained his point, 
and the subject dropped. 

On reaching home, Sylvester, when he heard of the arrival of his reve- 
rend friend, was delighted and amazed. 
" Who is it, Syl?" inqtured Tom. 
" Mr. Bouse." 

"Mr. Bouse: ah! who's he?" 
" The Beverend Mr. Bouse." 

" Oh: a parson: ah: / shall go idto by study. Jib, bridg be sobe 
coffee up there. 

" But you'll come in and speak to him of course," cried Sylvester. 
" Doe, Syl, I dod't like parsod's id private. They are all very well 
id the pulpit, but id a roob I cad't bear theb." 

" Oh, but he's such a very nice fellow. I'm sure you'll be pleased 
with him. Do come in." 

" Well, I'll go id with you; but if he be adythidg at all like the crew 
whob we used to have here, I shall cut it id a bobedt." 

They then entered the drawing-room, and Sylvester seized the reve- 
rend gentleman by the hand, and having shaken it heartily, introduced 
Tom. 

" Weill" exclaimed Sylvester, " this is unexpected. Why, I'd no idea 
of your coming to town." 

" I had no idea of it myself, till this morning," returned the reverend 
gentleman, inferring at once that they wished it to appear that his visit 
was quite imexpected. 

" And did you leave the village pretty quiet ?" resumed Sylvester. 
" Have any ghosts been seen by the people since we left ?" 
" No: all has been tranquil — ^perfectly tranquil." 
" By the by, Mr. Bouse," observed Mrs. Delolme, " what is your opi- 
nion of supernatural appearances — of visions — of ghost« ? Do you think 
that they are really ever seen ?" 

" I have not the slightest doubt upon the subject," replied the reve- 
rend gentleman. 

" Doe bad," said Tom, to whom the reverend gentleman seemed to 
appeal — ^** that is, doe idtellectual bad, I should thidk, cad have dow the 
ghost of a doubt about that." 

" I have myself seen one," resumed the reverend gentleman — ^and 
Tom privately intimated to Sylvester that he had nearly put his foot in 
it — ** I have seen one enter a room, wiUk dehberately across it, look 
about, tiini, and then walk deliberately back — as distinctly as I see you 
before me." 

"And it is, I suppose, unpossible," said Mrs. Delolme, "for j^ou to 
have been in a reverie at the time ?" 
" Quite impossible— quite. 
•'J mesm, jon could not have seen it in imagination) merely?" 







^_^/?yy fj/, 



^n£ao^.€^^' / -^/tMy^, 



THE SOMKAttBtTLlST. 163 

" Certainly not. Had I been alone I might have doubted — ^I might 
have doubted even the evidence of my own senses — ^I should have been 
then inclined to believe that I had seen it merely in imagination ; but 
I was not alone: I was with one who had no imagination in him! — 
pardon the expression — I mean my gardener, whose mind I believe to 
be as destitute of imagination as it is possible for the mind of a man to 
be/' 

" And may I ask, did he see it?** inquired the doctor. 

" He did, as distinctly as I saw it myself." 

" And had you any proof that it was not flesh and blood?" 

" Why I cannot say that I had any actual proof .^^ 

" Neither you nor your servant attempted to touch it?" 

" No, neither attempted to touch it." 

*' Did it make any noise as it walked along?" 

" Not more than you or I should make without our boots." 

^^ But as much you think?" 

'^ I should say quite as much." 

" Then there must, I submit, have been something more than spirit 
about it." 

" I believe not. The noise indeed might have been imaginary ; but 
the appearance of the figure I am satisfied was not." 

"Well," said the doctor, "these things are extraordinary: many 
equally extraordinary things have been accounted for; but as many 
have occurred for which we cannot account, we must -vaew this as being 
one of them." 

The time had now arrived when the reverend gentleman thought it 
prudent to depart. He had previously been engaged by the doctor to dine 
with them on the morrow, but while taking leave of Aunt Eleanor, he 
promised to call upon her early in the morning. 

Almost immediately after he had left, Mrs. Delolme, who was very 
highly pleased with hun, rang the bell for prayers, and when they had 
been read, Tom and Sylvester retired to the study. James had pro- 
vided a pound of German sausage for them this time, and a couple of 
bottles of Burton ale, the whole of which they managed between them, 
of course ! — ^and when Tom had set the trap again, and placed a piece of 
string across the window, so that even the slightest touch would bring 
down a shelf laden with empty bottles, they left the study and retired to 
rest. 



CHAPTER XIX. 

THE DELICATE DISCLOSURE. 



In the morning, Tom, on awaking, found the skeleton by his side. 
He started, of course, when he saw it first, and opened his eyes and his 
mouth. There it stood — ^within a foot of him— pointing directly at him 
with its right band, and making a fist of its left* 



154 STLVEftTEB AOUHD 

Tom got out of bed-— ou the other side, of course— -and he wasn't 
long about it. He didn't at all like the look of the thing. Nor did the 
expression of his features denote the existence of unmingled joy. He 
felt queer. He couldn't understand it. There it stood in a menacing 
position, with a white pocket handkerchief tied round its shin. 

"DodsedceP cried Tom, at length. "Pooh I I wod't have it I I say, 
old fellow, what gabe do you call this?" 

The skeleton was, as usual, silent, and Tom went round to inspect it 
more closely. "Fd sbash you, old fellow," said he, indi^iantly, "if I 
thought you had adjihidg like life id you I" And, having given 
utterance to this remarkable expression, he went as be was into 
Sylvester's room. 

" Adother gabe, Syl," said he. " Cobe add look here." 

" What now?*' exclaimed Sylvester. 

^^Just cobe add look* — There!" he added, as Sylvester entered his 
room. " There you are! — ^what do you thidk of ihcUT^ 

"Good gracious!" cried Sylvester. "What, was it there when you 
awoke?" 

" Exactly id that positiod. I haved't touched it." 

"Well, this w strange!" 

"Do you see its leg tied up, as if it were idjured whed caught id the 
trap?" 

" Beally, this surpasses all!" 

"Dow, we wod't tell the wobed about this," said Tom; "if ^ve do,rb 
safe to be victibized agaid; but the goverdor shall see it, add thed we 
shall hear what he thidks of the batter*" 

Again and again Sylvester expressed his surprise, and feeling in 
reality all that he expressed— *for he hadn't the most remote idea of the 
manner in which the skeleton had been removed— he returned to his 
own room to dress. 

During breakfest, not a syllable on the subject was uttered; but after- 
wards, Tom took the doctor up stairs and showed him the thing as it 
stood. 

" And do you mean to say, Tom, you know nothing of it?" said the 
doctor, who began to suspect Tom himself. 

" All I kdow of it," replied Tom, " is this : that there add thus it stood 
whed I awoke." 

"But were you not disturbed at all during the night?" 

" Dot at all. Add I defy ady bad alive to cobe idto by roob while I'b 
asleep without wakidg be up." 

" Whose handkerchief is that roimd the leg? That, perhaps, may 
give lis some clue." 

Tom took off the handkerchief; and, having examined it, found that 
it was his own. 

"Ahl" said the doctor, suspiciously. "Well, all I can say, Tom, is, 
that it's strange. We may, perhaps, find it all out by and bye." 

He then left the room ; and, as Tom perceived clearly that he was 
again suspected, he struck the intruding skeleton in the mouth, and 
knocked its head o£P. 

As the doctor was thoughtfully going down stairs, Aunt Eleanor's 



THE SOHNAMBULlfiT. 1 65 

rererend friend arrived; and, on being announced, was welcomed with 
warmth by all, save Tom, who was privately engaged in delivering a 
deeply indignant soliloquy. Even the features of Mrs. Delolme were 
relaxed when the reverend gentleman appeared; for all the virtues he 
possessed, with all those which he could be imagined to possess, had 
been by Aunt Eleanor duly set forth. 

There was, however, one fact which puzzled him exceedingly: and 
that was, the absence of all anxiety on the part of Aunt Eleanor to 
have a private conference. He couldn't understand it. Ho had fancied 
that her anxiety to converse with him privately would have been most 
intense!— instead of which, he found that even the most favourable 
opportunities were lost, and that, in fact, she was not at all anxious 
about the matter. He was not, it is true, displeased with this: it 
didn't in the slightest degree distress him: it, on the contrary, tended to 
convince him, that the stout individual in question, was one whom she 
really didn't care much about; but he did thank it strange— exceedingly 
strange — ^that after having summoned him to London, expressly in 
order to consult him on the subject, she should not in any manner, 
either directly or indirectly, allude to it. It was true she might be wait- 
ing imtil he had seen this stout gentleman : certainly this struck him as 
being extremely probable: it moreover struck him, that as bulk was 
the point at issue, he couldn't form anything like a just judgment upon 
that point, tmtil he had seen him: still, although these might be the 
real causes of her silence, and although he thought it likely that he 
should meet him at dinner — ^lie could not but feel — ^notwithstanding the 
delicacy of the subject — ^that a few brief preliminary observations would 
be agreeable, and, by no means whatever, incorrect. 

In the course of the morning, Mrs. Delolme expressed an earnest 
desire to introduce him to Mr. Terre, and as the reverend gentleman — ' 
conceiving that he was in reality the man who had proposed— was 
equally anxious for the introduction, the carriage was immediately 
ordered, and they went. 

He now thought he saw clearly how the case stood : that this great 
gun was the stout individual — that Mrs. Delolme knew all about it-^ 
and that she had been deputed by Aimt Eleanor to manage the intro- 
duction, in order that he might at once be able to pass judgment upon 
the point at issue. 

Instead, however, of finding Mi\ Terre the stout person he had ima- 
gined, he found him particularly thin, which at once upset all his ideas 
on the subject of his being the man, and tended to remove those pre- 
judices against him, which he had almost involuntarily inspired. 

In bringing these two reverend persons together, Mrs. Delolme — 
perhaps naturally — anticipated a high intellectual treat; but, as this 
anticipation was not based upon any profoimd knowledge of the men, 
she was doomed to experience disappointment. They were both super- 
ficial, and therefore both cautious. They were afraid of each other, 
and knowing that there exists much virtue in silence — seeing that it 
leaves an immense amount of eloquence, genius, tact, and erudition, to be 
imagined-^prudence prompted them both to avoid every subject upon 
which they conceived a discussion might arise. 



156 StLTESTEK SOUKU 

But although disappointed in this respect, their silence had a great 
effect on Mrs. Delolme; it caused her to believe that they were both 
profound, and hence to raise them in her estimation, for she felt it to be 
the true silence of wisdom ; and so, indeed, it was, as far as that wisdom 
went. 

"Well ; that Mr. Terre was not the individual in question, the reverend 
gentleman now felt convinced, he therefore resolved to wait till dinner 
time with patience, in the ftill expectation of seeing him then, and 
being anxious to call upon a friend or two in town, he, on their return, 
took leave imtil five. 

Meanwhile Tom and Sylvester were busily engaged in devising means 
by which they might solve that mystery, the effect of which, upon the 
minds of Dr. and Mrs. Delolme had wounded Tom's private feelings 
deeply. He knew that he was unjustly suspected, of course; he also 
knew that, unless the whole affair was satisfactorily cleared up, his 
reputation must suffer. He admitted that, in the absence of all proof 
to the contrary, the suspicion that he had invented these tricks with the 
view of clearing himself of the accusation of Ninety-nine, was neither 
irrational under the circumstances, nor strained; but he did think it 
hard — ^knowing his innocence — very hard, that every thing he did for 
the purpose of removing that suspicion, should have a direct tendency 
to confirm it. 

" But ril dot give it up," said he, having invented and repudiated fifty 
schemes which at first appeared likely to achieve the object in view. " 111 
dever give it up till I fidd out the cause, although we had better perhaps 
keep it to ourselves udtil the gradd result is discovered. Dow I'll tell 
you what I'll do to begid with : VH sedd Jib out for a couple of bells, 
add as the skeletod seebs to be either directly or iddirectly the great 
swell, I'll hadg them ibbediately over by head, add have stridgs at- 
tached to its legs, so that if it be reboved — ^however slightly — the bells 
bay ridg udkdowd to hib who rebovcs it." 

" Very good," said Sylvester. " But why send James for the bells ? 
Why let him know anything about them? you'd better get them your- 
self: or I'll run and get them for you. We shall however have to go 
out, by and bye, and then we can bring them in with us." 

" That will be the best way, certaidly," said Tom, " but what do you 
thidkoftheschebe?" 

" I think it a very good one. But / should advise sitting up, here 
in the study. I'll sit up with you with pleasure." 

" It wod't do, Syl — I'b sure it wod't do. Whed they see a light 
they'll cut back." 

" Then let's sit in the dark." 

" Id the dark ! What bortal cad keep hibself awake throughout the 
dight id the dark? Hubad dature hasd*t the power to do it." 

" Fd do it. I'd keep myself awake— especially on such an occasion— 
I'd stake my existence upon it." 

" Well," said Tom, " suppose we try the bell dodge first. The thidg 
cad't be boved without causidg the bells to ridg, dor cad the beUs ridg 
without wakidg be. I therefore thidk that we had better try that dodge 
to-di^ht; the result of which bay perhaps guide us to-borrow." 



THE SOMNAMBULIST. 157 

" Very well: then let it be so. Well bring the bells in with us when 
we go out." 

Having decided on pursuiug this course, they left the study to prepare 
for dinner; and on going into the drawing-room shortly afterwards, 
found that the reverend gentleman had arrived. He did not, however, 
appear to be at ease. He was evidently anxious about something. He 
kept fidgeting about, and glancing at the door, and starting when any 
one entered. 

" Your aunt and I," said he at length to Sylvester aside, " have had 
no conversation on that subject yet." 

" Have you not," said Sylvester, who conceived that he alluded to the 
mystery which still occupied his tiioughts. 

'< I don't think she likes to allude to the subject." 

" Very likely not. But did you ever hear of anything so extraordi- 
nary — so unaccountable?" 

" I never was more astonished in my life than when I heard of it." 

" All in the house were astonished." 

" Do they all know of the circumstance?" 

"Oh! yes. But whatever may now occur will be concealed from 
them all till the point has been gained.'* 

" Do you think that his object then tvill be attained?" 

"IVe no doubt of it." 

" Well !" said the reverend gentleman, thoughtfully, " it is altogether 
the strangest thing I ever heard of." 

Dinner was announced: and although no stout individual had arrived, 
the reverend gentleman felt very nervous. This feeling, however, while 
they were at dinner wore off: ind^ the doctor, who was at all times 
anxious to make those around him happy, at length put him in high 
spirits by his lively and interesting conversation. He was delighted 
with the doctor. He had never met with a man whom he admired so 
much. And the doctor was equaUy delighted with him; for simplicity 
of manners is appreciated most by those who are most conversant mth 
the world's hypocrisy. 

At eight o'clock Tom and Sylvester left; and as the ladies had pre- 
viously retired, the reverend gentleman fully expected that the doctor 
would allude to the contemplated marriage, seeing that Sylvester — ^as 
he imagined — ^had told him that the whole affaii* was known to them 
all. But the doctor, of course, knowing nothing about it, did not say a 
word upon the subject; which the reverend gentleman thought very 
strange, feeling convinced that he was perfectly cognizant of the cause 
of his coming to town. As, however, the subject was not jiUuded to by 
him, he did not like to allude to it, and therefore no allusion was made 
to it at all. 

About nine, the doctor was siunmoned to see a patient, and having 
taken the reverend gentleman up to the ladies, apologised and left; and 
as, shortly aftenvards, Mrs. Delolme quitted the room to give some in- 
structions to the servants, Aunt Eleanor, addressing her reverend friend, 
who was anxious for her to begin, said, " Well ; and when do you think 
of leaving town?" 



158 SYLVESTER SOUND 

" Why," replied the reverend gentleman, " that depends upon circum- 
stances entii'cly." 

** I see. But you do not think of leaving just yet?" 

" Why — no. Until something has been settled of course, I shall not 
think of leaving. When do you think this affair will be arranged?" 

'' What affaii- do you aUude to?" 

" Why, of that affair of course — ^which has brought me to town." 

" Oh ! I beg pardon. I didn't ask as a matter of curiosity. I thought 
it might be something in which I was concerned." 

" And so, my dear madam, it is." 

** Indeed! Why what do you mean?" 

" I know your delicacy," replied the reverend gentlamm, with great 
deliberation, "and I appreciate it highly: but when am I to be intro- 
duced to him?" 

"Tohim!— To whom?" 

" Why, this gentleman." 

" What gentleman?" 

"Why, the gentleman who has made you an offer." 

" Oh !" exclaimed Aunt Eleanor, gaily, being quite disposed to keep 
up that which she conceived to be a very pleasant jest, " I understand. 
Yoti shall be introduced: Til promise you thaV^ 

" Is he — ^very — remarkably — stout?*' 

" Not very — ^not remarkably so — at least, not that I know ci. But 
you shall see him one of these days." 

One of these days! This, under the circumstances, struck the reve- 
rend gentleman as being a most extraordinary expression. One of these 
days! Had he come between sixty and seventy miles, nominally for llie 
purpose of being introduced to this man, but virtually in order to be 
told that he should see him one of these days? 

" He is in town, I presume?" said he, after a pause. 

" Beally," returned Aunt Eleanor, still keeping up the assiuned joke, 
" I don't know exactly where he is at present." 

" Indeed! But, of course, he'll be here in a day or two?" 

" He may be; and when he does come, I'll at once introduce him — 
you funny man, be assured of that." 

Funny man ! Well, in the judgment of the reverend gentleman, it 
was a funny affair altogether. He didn't know that he was particularly 
funny : he might be — ^he wouldn't imdertake to deny that he was : nor 
did he deny it — ^but he thought the whole proceeding of coiu'se very odd. 

" But," said he, " in the event of yoiu' accepting this offer, when do 
you think the affair will take place?" 

" Well, I really cannot say; but, when it does take place, you will, I 
hope, do me the favour to officiate?" 

" I shall feel, on the occasion of your marriage, great pleasure in being 
jv'esent. But I suppose it will be settled now in a very few days?" 

" No, I don't tliink it will be so soon." 

" In a week, then, or so?" 

" I think not so soon as that." 

" Well, my dear madam," said the reverend gentleman, whp really 



THE SOMNAMBULIST. 159 

felt very mucli embarrassed, for, while he could not but think that he 
had not been exactly treated ivelly he was anxious to conceal the fact of 
his being annoyed, "you know best, certainly — ^you ought to know best. 
But I presume, from what you have said, that you intend to accept his 
offer?" 

" Why, really, that is a question which I cannot answer now. I shall, 
however, be in a position to do so immediately after the offer has been 
made." 

^^ After it has been made! Has it not already been made?" 

"Not yet: no: it has not been made yet." 

** Oh! i beg pardon I I thought that it had been." 

" Why, what do you mean? There is nothing in your countenance 
facetious ; and yet you are jesting, of course?" 

"Jesting! Bless my life, no; I'm not jesting at all." 

" Do you really mean to say that you are serious?" 

"Perfectly so." 

" Then what do you mean?" 

" You have had — or rather you expect to have, an offer of marriage : 
do you not?" 

"No!" 

" But a gentleman has proposed, or is about to propose to you?" 

" Not that I am aware of." 

"Tut!— bless my life: a stout gentleman! — one whom you think 
somewhat too stout?" 

**I know nothing of it." 

" Well, but — ^really, my dear madam — ^is that a fact?" 

"I know nothing whatever, my*dear sir, about it." 

"Bless my heart alive! Well, but did you not direct a letter to be 
sent to me, stating that such was the case?" 

" Most certainly not." 

"The young dog — the young rascal. Til give him a lecture. I 
shouldn't have supposed it. I shouldn't have thought he would have 
done such a thing. The young scamp." 

" To whom do you allude?'* 

"To Sylvester." 

" Sylvester ! Well, but, my dear sir, you don't mean to say that our 
Sylvester sent such a letter as that?" 

"Here it is!'* replied the reverend gentleman, searching all his 
pockets mth astonishing rapidity. " Here it is ! — ^No, it isn't : it's in my 
other coat. But Sylvester sent me a letter — ^which letter you shall see 
to-morrow morning — ^to this effect: that you had desired him to inform 
me, that you thought of entering into the marriage state: that you 
hadn't exactly made up your mind: that you would not do so until you 
had consulted me : that you fancied that the gentleman, who had made 
you an offer, was somewhat too stout — ^" 

"Too stout!" cried Aimt Eleanor, laughing. 

"Yes: somewhat too stout: that you would not decide until you had 
had my opinion upon the point; and that, if that opinion were favour- 
able, jrou wished me to p^orm the marriage cercmonjr." 



160 BTLVESTER SOUND 

"Why, you amase me!" 

**That is the substance of the letter which I received yesterday 
morning." 

"And signed by Sylvester." 

" Signed by him — ^in his own hand-writing." 

"Impossible!" 

" It*8 a fact, m take my oath to the writing. Fd just commenced 
breakfast when the letter arrived, and when I read the contents you may 
imagine my surprise." 

" You might well be surprised," said Aunt Eleanor, smiling, 

" I was surprised, because I never imagined for one moment that you 
contemplated anything of the sort. However, it appeared to me quite 
clear then, and therefore I came up to London at once." 

" And was this the sole cause of your coming to town?" 

" I had no other object than that of seeing you." 

" Then, really, I am very sorry for it." 

" I am not — I am not! On tlie contrary — ^now that I find that it's 
nothing but what they, in London, call a hoax — ^I'm quite pleased — ^I'm 
delighted ! It seems to have struck into my mind a new Hght : it has given 
animation to feelings which have long lain dormant. I candidly confess 
to you that I am much pleased: nay. Til also confess to you, this; that 
I came up fully determined to oppose that man's claim, by declaring — 
if I found that he was anything of a size — ^that he was, in reality, much 
too stout." 

" What !" said Aunt Eleanor, gaily ; " and thus to prevent me from 
gaining an affectionate husband?" 

"No; to prevent you merely from having him. But we'll speak 
more of this by and bye. The idea of my leaving that letter at the inn! 
I wish that I had brought it. I changed my coat, you see, when I went 
to dress." 

" Well, but are you quite sure," said Amit Eleanor, upon whom the 
observation of the reverend gentleman, having reference to those feelings 
which had long been dormant, had a very peculiar effect; "are you 
certain that that letter was written by Sylvester?" 

" Quite. But you shall sec it in the morning, and form your own 
judgment. I feel quite clear upon the point." 

" Then, really, I must scold him well." 

"Leave that to me, my dear madam: just leave that to me. Although 
I cannot be angry with him for it, III give him a lecture. We had 
better not, however, say a word to him to-night. Ill bring the letter 
"with me in the morning, and then wc shall have all before us." 

Mrs. Delolme now re-entered the room, and shortly after, the doctor 
returned and recommenced chatting to the reverend gentleman, while, 
at intervals, Aimt Eleanor merrily laughed at the idea of her having 
objected to a lover on the ground of his being too stout. 

Soon after the retm*n of Tom and Sylvester, their reverend friend 
took his leave, and when prayers had been read, they went as usual, 
into the study to supper, and when they had eaten to their hearts' con- 
tent, they adjusted the bells, and went to bed. 



THE SOMNAMBULIST. 161 



CHAPTER XX. 



THE BELLS. 



So much has been written and said about Love, that, were not liis 
beautiful features ever varying and ever new, the subject must have 
been ere this exhausted. One of the- peculiar attributes of Love is his 
perpetual juvenility — ^his immortal youth. He was created vfith. the 
Creation: he was fiie favourite boy of Eve: Eve was remarkably fond 
of Love; and he has been ever since the first favourite of her daughters. 
From the Creation he lived till tlie Deluge : he was in the Ark with Noah, 
and welcomed back the dove. From the Deluge he lived till the com- 
mencement of the Christian Era, and in the whole of the proceedings of 
the eventful period which intervened took an active and a most con- 
spicuous part. From the commencement of the Christian Era he 
continued to live; and he is alive now, and full of health, joy, and 
beauty, and, albeit six thousand years old, doesn't look more than six. 

This, however, may be said to be a painter's view of Love. Let 
us view Love philosophically. Stop! — ^Philosophically? No: that is 
impracticable— quite. LoVe repudiates Philosophy, and Philosophy 
repudiates Love. They are, and ever have been, at war: they are, 
in fact, the greatest enemies that ever had existence — each breathes 
destruction to the other: they are very inveterate foes. Love frequently 
upsets Philosophy, even in the very streets ; which is very incorrect of 
Love certainly ; but then Philosophy is constantly endeavouring to upset 
Love! Sometimes, however. Love — ^in his most amiable moments — v^Hl 
meet Philosophy calmly, and try to effect something like a reconciliation; 
but Philosophy will not be propitiated, conceiving that Love can never 
love Philosophy. Nor can he; nor can Philosophy ever love Love. 
Love may be beloved by millions dearly; but never can Philosophy 
be a lover of Love. 

It being, therefore, impossible, to take a philosophical view of Love, 
suppose we take a common sense view — ^and yet, what on earth has Love 
to do with Common Sense? Absolutely nothing. Love doesn't even 
know Common Sense. We cannot, therefore, take a common sense view 
of Love. No; if we view him at all, we must view liim as he is — a 
monarch reigning in the hearts of liis people : a mighty monarch — the 
King of Hearts : a king without revenues sufficient to find him even in 
shirts — ^an absolute and a naked king! — a king, moreover, glorying in his 
nakedness, of which, being pure, he is never ashamed: a king whose 
dominion is illimitable, and whose prime minister is so impartial, that 
he strikes the light of Love into the souls of all, without reference to 
either east, colour, or creed. 



162 ITLYSSTEB SOITXD. 

He doesn't, however, always inflame the thrilling bosoms of youth : 
heMl sometimes let people alone for forty or fifty years. This may be 
held to be an extraordinary fact, but it is a fact, nevertheless — a fact 
which must not be denied, nor, for more than a moment, even doubted, 
seeing that Aunt Eleanor and her reverend friend supplied at this period 
a case in point. 

Aunt Eleanor was upwards of forty years of age, and the reverend 
gentleman was upwards of fifty, while neither had, up to this time, really 
loved. The germs of love were in the hearts of both, but they haa 
never struck root. And in speaking of love, it must be understood as 
love, not certainly contradistinguished, but distinguished ftom $&^An; 
fbr while Aunt Eleanor was one of the most affeotionatd ore&trbr^s that 
ever breathed, the affections of the reverend gentleman were strong. It 
will hence be seen that love does not necessary co^^xist with affection: 
in other words, that affec^pn may exist without love; for certain is it 
that the reverend gentleman never inspired the passion of love until he 
received Sylvester's letter, and that Aunt fileanor never really felt that 
she loved, until her reverend friend spoke of those icings whioh had in 
Ms bosom lain dormant so long. Then, indeed, the flame burst forth 
to amaze them with the consciousness of their having been icNrmed to 
love each other; and that oonsciousness, couj^led with the amazement 
thereon consequent, kept them awake — on the mondng that foUowad 
the eventful day of which the preceding chapter treats— until hali^^pa*t 
two o'clock. 

At half'^past two — ^it was a singular coincidence^^^^hey both fcll aileepf 
and they hadn't been asleep more than fifteen minuted, when Tom hetard 
his bells. 

"Hollo: very goodr said he, getting out of bed. "Stop a bidite, 
add ril give you pepper!" And, grasping a stick, a blow from which 
would have made the head of any man ache for a month, he went up 
stealthily into the study. 

" Who's there?" he demanded, in tones Of indignation. " Do you 
hear?" 

All was silent. 

" I've got you, have I?" he continued. " Very good. Wait a bidit*: 
kt*d strike a light, add have a look at you. Dow thed!" he added^ 
having lighted the candle; " dow thed I where are you? Do yOtt healc"? 
It's of doe use, you kdow — codcealbedt is vaid. Do you heaft I'll 
sbash you, if you dod't cobe out! Where have you got to? Hollo T 

All was still silent. There was not a breath to indicate the presence 
of a soul. 

" I'll tell you what it is, old fellow," resumed Tom, " you've poked 
yourself sobewhere ; but dod't believe I'b goidg to give you up : dot a 
bit of it! I'll have you, add doe bistake: you'd better cobe out of 
your hole: d'ye hear T' 

Tom examined minutely every cupboard and every corner ; he looked 
round and round, but no creature could he see. He also examined the 
ske'eton. There it stood — it didn't appear to have been removed — ^it 
didn't appear to have been touched^ and yet he heard the bells img I 







^ y^^/Zf. ae^/i /?' ///^. 



m^f 



7 /,C //^/^^ 



i- 
If 



^ 



TIte SOjmJLMBULttl:. 1^ 

Stfe fcu!rfely fe6uld n6t hatft be^ft inistaken it that? Thfe vfeifj th6ti|ht 
induced a doubt. He felt that he might have been mistaken : h^ th6u^ht 
it possible — just possible — ^that he had beeft dreieiming) and, while d^eani- 
ihg, Ancied he heaM the bells. 

" Well, if it is so, it is !" he at leAglh e^fcdlaitned. « I d^l^tliidly tk&ki^^ 
that I heal'd theb. Hovfiftvei:, it*8 cleajf that thei^'ft dobody here, so I 
bay just as \^il gb to bed agaid aj Aol." 

lie, therefore, descended, and put out the light, and, having established 
his stick near the pillow, got into bed again calmly. He had scarcely, 
however, covered himself comfortably up, when the bells begiin to ring 
again merrily. 

" Thai's sobethidg dear the bark, at all evfedts!'* cried Tom, ivho was 
out of bed again in the twinkling of an eye. " There cdd be doe bistakfe 
dow! Wud bobedt, by friedd," he added, grasping his stick — " odly 
stop wud bobedt, add you'll oblige be." 

Again he stealthily ascended to the study, and with feelings of hope 
looked round and round. There wa&n't a corher — there wasn't a hole 
sufficiently large to admit a mouse — ^that then escaped minute examina- 
tion. He looked everywhere again and again, but the result was 
destruction to the hope he had inspired. 

" If," he exclaimed, " I f?o dail you. Heaved havC berey upod your 
bbdes, for they shall bake the sweetest busic bodes ever had the ability 
tbbake." 

Having given emphatic expression to this sentiment, he again descended 
and got into bed ; but his head had not been on the pillow three min"uteij 
when the bells again recommenced ringing. 

"Gro it!" he cried, "by all badder of beads. There's dothidg like 
bakidg edough doise. But if you thidk Tb goidg to cut up add doWd 
stairs all tlie blessed bordidg, you'll fide yoTirself bistaked, by friedd, dbfe 
doubt ! Dow thed,'* he added, in the depths of thought, " what's to be 
dode? That fellow's sobe where — there cad't be two opidiods about 
that. But where? That's the questiod. He's havidg a gabe, &dd a 
dice gabe it is. But feedd I could catch hib! Pull 'eb rfott'tf," he added, 
as the bells continued to ring; "dod't be dice about it — dod't bidce the 
batter: pull 'eb dbwd! Well, I'll go up agaid — wodde bore; add if t 
shoidd dail this idgediouS gedtlebad, it strikes be as beidg extl*febfely 
probable that he'll kdow it!" 

Once more, accordingly, Tom left his rbom, and, on going up stairs 
he fell over a string, which not only brought the bells and the skel6t^6 
down, but pulled Sylvester half out of bed and awoke him. 

" Who's thefe?'* cried Sylvester, in startling tones — " Who's there?*' 

"I!" replied Tom. "Dod't be alarbed— dod't be alarbed!" aiid li« 
rushed at once into the study. 

" Tom !" cried the doctor, who had heard the nOise, " What on earth 
are you about?" 

"Adother gabe!" replied Tom. "Here's adother dice gabe! Just 
cobe up— odly cobe ; frob this spot I'll dot bove ad idch I" 

The doctor, who really felt very much annoyed, slipped oh hi§ drtBH* 
i^-gdWti at otice; a&d ^ he Wa§ {nti^tt^ding Hp stftirs, with the vi^W of 



164 STLVESTER SOUND 

fpeaking to Tom very severely, Sylvester, who was somewhat alarmed, 
came cautiously out of his room. 

'^ What is the meaning of this?" said the doctor. 

" Upon my word, I don*t know," replied Sylvester. " Some one 
pulled me nearly out of bed just now.** 

" Pulled you nearly out of bed? Oh ! we must investigate this. Now, 
nif^ he added, on reaching the study, '^ what is all this about?** 

" It's a gabe,*' replied Tom. " But he*8 here — I kdow he*s here!*' 

"Who's here?** 

** He whob I*d give ady buddy to see.** 

" Nonsense r* cried the doctor. " I demand an explanation." 

** You shall have it,** said Tom. " But just wait a bidite: just wait 
till I*ve foudd hib. I'b adxious to give hib ad expladatiod first.** 

" What do you mean, Tom? Surely you are mad. There's no one 
here.** 

" Sobe wud was here, add that dot two bidites ago.** 

"I don't believe it: I cannot believe it!'* 

" rb sure of it. K dot, how cabe by bells to ridg?" 

"WhatbeUs?** 

" Why, by bells: the bells which I hudg up id by roob last dight.** 

" Tom, what do you mean?*' 

'^ I bead that the bells which I hudg up id by roob last dight, add 
which cobbudicated with the legs of by bad, have beed ridgidg away for 
the last half hour; add I also bead that those bells would dot have rudg 
if the stridgs had dot beed pulled ; that by bad would dot have failed 
if he had dot beed touched, add that, therefore, sobe wud has beed here." 

" Tom,** said the doctor, with an expression of severity, " TU not be 
disturbed thus night after night. We must, I see, get lodgings for you 
somewhere else." 

" The disturbadce is dot of by creatiod. You dod't thidk that I have 
disturbed you?" 

" Who else could have done it?" 

" That's the very poidt I'd give a billiod to ascertaid!'* 

"As far as I alone am concerned, it*s a matter of slight importance, 
but when the whole house is disturbed, it's most unpardonable. Even 
Sylvester must have his rest broken! What was your object in pulling 
him out of bed?" 

" Out of bed!— Syl !— pull hib out of bed? Why I haved't beed idto 
his roob!** 

"If you didn*t, who could have pulled him out of bed?" 

"That*s the poidt — ^that's the very questiod! But were you thed 
pulled out of bed, Syl?" 

" I was, very nearly.** 

" But you dod't bead to thidk that I did it?** 

" It*s a matter of little moment, Tom, whether you did or not.'* 

" But I didd't ! I haved't beed dear you!'* 

" Then it must have been some one else. I only wish that he hadn*t 
cut my hand quite so much.** 

" lias your band been eut?** inquired the doctor^ taking it immediately 



THE SOMNAMBULIST. 165 

in his. " It appears to have been cut with a string. Tom/' he added 
stemly, "go to bed, sir; and let us have no more of this folly/' 

" Well," said Tom, " but do you bead to bead—" * 

" I have nothing more to say," observed the doctor. 

'* Well, I suppose you'll let be explaid?" 

" I don't require any explanation," said the doctor, who left the study, 
and in silence returned to his room. 

" Victibized agaid !" exclaimed Tom, as the doctor left him. " Shouldd't 
I be happier id the grave? I do believe that if you were to go frob us 
roudd to our Adtipodes, you wouldd't beet with a bore udfortudate swell. 
If there be ady luck afloat, it's perfectly sure to cobe idto by harbour. 
I'b wud of the elect to receive addoyadce. I'll back byself agaidst ady 
bad id the udiverse to have byself bisudderstood, add by botives bisid- 
terpreted. Dow look here, Syl : you kdow the purpose for which I put 
up those bells. Well,*about half ad hour ago, I heard theb ridg, add I 
cabe up daturally with this shall stick, expectidg to fide a bad of sobe 
sort. But doe: he'd cut it; add I wedt dowd agaid; add the beUs radg 
agaid, add agaid I cabc up add had by usual luck agaid; add agaid I 
wedt dowd, whed the bells radg agaid; add just as I was cobidg up 
here for the last tibe, to see if I could dail this varbidt — ^what would I 
dot give to see hib dow! — ^I fell over sobethidg, add grazed by shid— 
brought dowd by bells, add brought dowd by bad — ^add *for all these 
courtesies' I ab dedoudced! If this be dot edough to bake a bad love 
his bother, I dod't kdow what is!" 

"Then did you faU?" 

"FaUI Slap! over sobethidg: I dod't kdow what, dor do I care- 
but I fell, add I suppose it was the doise I bade that woke you?" 

" No," returned Sylvester, " some one had hold of my hand!" 

"Is that a fact?" 

" Oh ! there's no doubt at all about it. I was pulled more than half 
out of bed!" 

" Add did you see do wud dear?" 

"Not a soul! I was somewhat alarmed at the moment, and called 
out to know who was there, and you answered me." 

" Thed I suppose that I'b let id for thatr 

" Not at all. You stated just now that you didn't come near me: I 
am, therefore, quite satisfied on that point; but that some one was near 
me at the time, is quite clear." 

" Well, but where could he have gode to? I saw doe wud cobe frob 
your roob! I wish I had — ^it would have beed a happy idcidedt! How 
could he by ady possibility have got out? Add if he could have got 
out, he couldd't have rushed past be without by seeidg hib ; add if eved 
he could have rushed past be idvisibly, he couldd't have pulled you out 
of bed dowd there, add kdocked by bad dowd here, at wud add the sabc 
tibe." 

" There may be two of them." 

" Good ! so there bay. But if I odly caught wud, I'd give hib edough 
for both. I dod't thidk, however great a gluttod he bight be, that he'd 
hesitate for wud sidgle bobedt to codfess tiiat he had had bore thad his 



bodicub— boi-e thad he could, with ady great degree of oobfort, digest 
But isd't it 8tJ*adge, dow, that we cad't get to the bottob d this? lad^ 
it barvellous, Syl?" 

" It is indeed. I know not what to think of it." 

" Well," said Tom, " I suppose they are pretty well s^fefied dow? I 
pwube they dod't idtedd to do ady bore bdichief this boul 1 Wll, there- 
fore, go to bed. But I'll try adother dodge or two. Of coorae, Fb 89dk^ 
la be bade a bartyr : IVe suffbred three banyrdobs already, but TU dot 
give it up. If they are to be caught, Til catch 'eb; add if I do cateh 
'tb, Yli strodgly recobbedd theb to look outl I'U reward theb hadd-* 
sobely — they shall be paid ! I feel dow as if I could half burder a 
Qouple with all the pleasure that appertaids to life. However, let's jxhidg« 
idto bed agaid. I feel so biserable, Syl, that IVe a good bide to say I'll 
go to sleep for a bodth I" 

They then returned to their respective rooms, and were disturbed qo 
more. 

In the morning, almost immediately after breakfast, the rever^kd 
gOQtleman called ; and Aunt Eleanor, with all that tact by whidi ladi^ 
fiire commonly characterised, arranged matters so that they were alcme. 
The reverend gentleman was in exceDent spirits— he had net, indeed, 
been for some years so gay; but Aunt Eleanor iblt tremulous, and 
anxious, and odd: her pulse did not beat with anything lik^ regul^t^, 
BW did she speak with any certainty of tone : she knew not, in feet, whal 
to make of her feelings : they appeared to her to be so extraordiBar)^** 
so droll — there was, in a word, a certain novelty about them which she 
©ould not at all understand. 

" Now, my dear madam,'* said the reverend gentleman, when all the 
preliminaries to conversation had been arranged, **ril show you my 
credentials.'* And taking Sylvester's letter from his poeket, he presented 
it with an air of confidence perfectly consistent with the feelings he en- 
tertained. 

" Dear me," said Aunt Eleanor, on glancing at the letter, " this is 
indeed his handwriting! And yet how extraordinary it is, that he 
should have sent such a letter. I cannot account ft>r it at allT 

" The young rogue! like a young colt or a young kitteu — ^ftiU o^play, 
my dear madam, full of play!" 

'^ But it is so contrary to his general oharaoter and conduct." 

" Youth, youth !" said the reverend gentleman. " Youth always vm^, 
and always will be youth!*' 

This remarkable observation settled the point as far as it went, an4 
Aunt Eleanor proceeded to read the letter; but while §he was readings, 
the reverend gentleman — ^who watched her with an expression of anxiety 
mingled with delight — could not perceive the slightest change in her 
countenance; at which he marvelled — and naturally; seeing that he was 
at the time perfectly unconscious of the fact that, although she was 
reading with great apparent care, she was in reality thinking of some- 
thing else. Had the reverend gentleman the previous day omitted the 
observation having reference to the resuscitation of certain ^elings^ 
which had long beea lying cbrmantj she would, wkfle »e«idiag^ thia letter^ 



THE SOMNAMBtTLIST. 167 

have laughed heartily; but as that obserration had been made, she 
looked at the fruit, of which she conceived it to be the germ — her 
thoughts were not upon the cause, but the effect — and therefore, whUe 
reading it, she didn't laugh at all. 

"Well, my dear madam," said the reverend gentleman, "what is your 
impression now?" 

" It certainly is Sylvester's hand- writing,** she replied ; ** but what 
his object could have been, I cannot possibly conceive. 

" Pun, was the young rogue's object, no doubt! It is cleat that lit 
thought it an excellent jest." 

"But such jests, my dear sir, are highly incorrect! — ^hc mtist lie 
scolded!** 

" Leave that to me, my dear madam: leave all that to me. fll j^vt 
him a lecture. Shall we have him in now?" 

"I think that we had better." 

The bell ^^ras rung, and Sylvester was summoned; and when %% 
appeared, he greeted the reverend gentleman, precisely as if unconscious 
of the existence of any such letter, as that which Aunt Eleanor h^ in 
her hand — which was thought very remarkable. 

" Sylvester," said the reverend gentleman, assuming a somewhat stefrn 
expression, " I am anxious to have a few words with you, calmly. 
Sylvester: there are jests which are venial, and jests which are not: 
there are jests which are harmless, and jests which are not: jests which 
are harmless, are those which I hold to be venial; jests which are not 
harmless, must be condemned. But there are, independently of those 
which I have named,jests which, although in themselves imimportant — 
or, I should rather say, apparently unimportant — are calculated to lead 
to important residts, and it is to this particular species of jest that I now 
wish to call your attention. In all ages jesting has been known. His- 
tory, both sacred and profane, speaks of jesting. The Pagans^ chief 
jester was deified: Momus was the heathen god of jesting. Kings sad 
princes have kept their jesters, sometimes with the view of being 
rebuked for their follies, but more frequently, I fear, for the purpose <w 
being applauded for those follies — sometimes, that their passions mijfht 
be regulated by wit, but more often that wit might pander to those pas- 
sions. Jesting has, therefore, antiquity to recommend it; but tliis is 
not the point at which I am anxious to arrive. Jests or jokes — they 
are strictly synonymous — may be divided into two distinct classes :— 
those which are salutary and those which are pernicious: I use the term 
* salutary,' advisedly, seeing that a well-timed jest has frequently been 
known to do much more good than a sermon. Again : there are white 
lies and there are black lies: there are also white jokes and black jokes j 
but albeit, a lie, whether white or black, is still a lie; and a joke,, 
whether white or black, is still a joke; lies are at all times highly 
reprehensible, while jokes at all times are not. There are practicsu. 
jokes and theoretical jokes: moral jokes and physical jokes: there are,^ 
moreover, jokes which are based upon falsehood and jokes which aare 
based upon truth ; but the jokes to which I am anxious to direct your 
attention, are those in which falsehood is involved* Now, it seems to 



168 SYLVESTER SOUND 

me, to be perfectly clear that you would scorn to tell a deliberate false- 
hood; but it is — ^nay, it must be — equally clear that you imagine that 
when a &lsehood is involved in a joke, it loses its reprehensible 
character." 

. "Not at all!" said Sylvester, who liad been throughout utterly at a 
loss to understand what the reverend gentleman was driving at. " A 
£sdsehood, no matter what colour it may assume, or however ingeniously 
it may be disguised, is, as you have said, a falsehood still ; and I should 
no more think of telling a falsehood in jest, than I should of telling an 
absolute falsehood in earnest." 

"My dear madam," said the reverend gentleman, "just oblige me 
with that letter. Sylvester," he added, " my anxiety is to impress upon 
your mind that a falsehood is a falsehood, and nothing but a falsehood, 
if even it be playfully enveloped in a joke. Now, allow me to read this 
letter: *My dear aunt desires me to inform you that she has an idea of 
entering into the marriage state.' Is there not a falsehood involved in 
this? Were you ever desired by her to inform me of anything of the 
sort? But to proceed — " 

" Nay — ^I b^ pardon — ^what letter is that which you are reading?" 

" What letter? This letter— your letter." 

"My letter?" 

" The letter you sent to me!" 

" You are mistaken. / have sent you no letter." 

"But this letter is yours?" 

" Not if it be addressed to you. I never wrote to you in my life." 

" Well, but look at it. That is your writing, is it not?" 

" It looks like my writing — most certainly ; but I never wrote it." 

" My dear," said Aunt Eleanor, " if it be yours confess it. I will not 
be angry; indeed, I mil not: although it is certainly very incorrect, 
yet I pledge you my word that I mil not be angry." 

" My dear aunt," said Sylvester, " if it were mine I should feel my- 
self bound to confess it at once ; but I assure you, most solemnly, that 
it is not. I never had occasion to write to Mr. House ; nor have I ever 
written to him. The resemblance which this writing bears to my own 
is amazing — but I pledge you my honour that it is not mine." 

" Well, but really," observed the reverend gentleman, " it seems to 
me to be almost impossible to have been written by any one else." 

" If I cannot induce you to believe me," said Sylvester, " I am, of 
course, sorry— exceedingly sorry — ^I can, however, say no more than I 
have said, the substance of which is, that that letter never was written 
by me." 

" But you perceive it bears your signature! He who coimterfeits 
the signature of another, is guilty of an act of forgery, and forgery is 
a crime which is pimishable by law — it is, in fact, a transportable offence 
— ^it used to be, indeed, a hanging matter — ^but even now a man who 
commits an act of forgery, may be taken up and treated as a felon — ^he 
may be tried in a criminal court, and if the jury find him guilty, the 
judge may pass upon him a sentence of transportation. It is therefore 
improbable— most improbable — that any man could, for the sake of a 



^ 



f 



I 




I 



A i 






I 



r 



THE SOMNAMBULIST. 169 

joke, be so awfully reckless, as to place himself thus in a position to be 
torn from the bosom of his family — ^to be branded as a felon — a common 
felon — ^and compelled to work in ignominious chains." 

" However improbable it may appear," said Sylvester, " that any one 
besides myself wi'ote that letter, I repeat — ^most firmly and most 
solemnly repeat — ^that it never was written by me. You remember the 
note that was found at the cottage — ^the note addressed to Rosalie— the 
hand in which that was written resembled mine as strongly as this does, 
and I have not the slightest doubt that the person who wrote the one 
wrote the other." 

" Well ; it's very mysterious," said the reverend gentleman. " Of 
course,^ I am boimd to believe you on your honour ; still I must say 
it's very mysterious." 

" It is," returned Sylvester, " very mysterious. But I assure you, 
my dear aunt — ^I do assure you both — that I would not be guilty of so 
great an act of folly." 

"I am sure that you would not my dear," said Aunt Eleanor. "I'm 
perfectly satisfied now, but I thought — I did think — ^that you might 
perhaps have done it by way of a jest. I am now, however, firmly 
convinced you did not, and you must therefore forgive me for sup- 
posing that I was justified by that letter in believing that you did." 

The reverend gentleman scarcely even then knew what to make of it : 
nor did he much care about saying another syllable on the subject; he 
saw more clearly than he had ever seen before that Aunt Eleanor was 
an amiable affectionate creature, who was anxious to take the most 
charitable view of everything that coidd be said to involve a doubt, and 
was therefore most anxious for Sylvester to leave; but before he was 
able to give an intimation of this anxiety, they were joined by the 
doctor and Mrs. Delolme, whose presence prevented an interesting scene 
which the reverend gentleman had in contemplation. 



CHAPTER XXI. 

THE PROPOSAL. 



The forms in which proposals of marriage are made, are as various 
as the views, thoughts, and passions of those who make them. It may 
at first sight appear strange that there should be so many ways of doing 
one and the same thing ; and yet, perhaps, of the myriads of millions 
who have proposed, no two men ever — either in ancient or modern 
times — ^managed this matter precisely alike. Nor is it at aU probable 
that any two men ever will; for, independently of the infinitely varied 
characters of lovers, the minds, forms, features, and feelings of those 
whom they love are so diversified, that every proposal, whether romantic 



170 tn*TB8TKm aomm 

(H* rational, ardent or cold, pathetic or comic — and the comic tfyle is by 
far the most popular among the ladies— <-¥dll have some little nomelty 
about it. 

Without, however, dwelling upon this, it is certain that one of the 
easiest things in the world for a man to do, is that of proposing to a 
"widow. She understands it so well. She knows so exactly what you 
niaan, and what you are anxious to say; and helps you over any little 
difficulty with so much tact, that it's really quite delightful. Yet; 
a widow most certainly affords every possible assistance to a man in 
this position. But while it is certain that the easiest proposal a 
■lan can make ii that which is made to a widow, it is equally certain 
that by far the most dij£cuh is that which a man has to make to an 
old maid. 

Now, albeit Aunt £leanor was an old maid, it is highly oorrect to 
cause it to be distinctly understood that she was not so particularly 
antiquated as some may imagine. No! she was upwards of forty; but 
although the exact age of a single lady above forty is conventionally 
a{K)i^3rphal, it may be said that she was much nearer one than &a^ 
hundred with saiely, seeing that no man in Europe can prove ^t she 
was not. 

The reverond gentleman, however, did not look at her age — he looked 
at her virtues: her amiability, h^ piety, her baievolence, the sweetness 
of her disposition, and the purity of hor heart. Still he conceived it to 
be extremely difficult to propose; and that apparent difficulty increased 
a» the time drew near at which he had determined that the proposal 
should be made. How hard he studied, few can tell; how many times 
he rehearsed that which he had fixed upon as his opening speech, lew 
have the power to form anything like a correct c(«ijecture; there are, 
however, many who can teD precisely why, when the time for the deli- 
very of that speech had arrived, his recreant memory abandoned his 
will; there are also many in a position to understand how it happened 
that, having resolved on the immediate pursuit of his object, he at once, 
notwithstanding that desertion, commenced. 

At this time he and Aunt Eleanor were in one of the doctor's draw- 
ing-rooms alone ; and as there appeared to be no prospect of any imme- 
diate interruption, he coughed — slightly cpit^hed — and thus began : — 

" Have you seen the papers this morning?" 

" I saw one in the breakfast-room, but I merely glanced at it." 

" You didn't read the debate in the House of Commons, I presume?" 

"Parliamentary debates I very seldom read: I am not sufficiently 
conversant with political affairs to read those awfully long speeches witi 
any degree oi interest. Was there anything of importance brought for- 
ward last night?'* 

"Why, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, I perceive, announced that 
the expenditure exceeds the income." 

** Indeed! Some bad management, I presume?" 

^* He says not — ^and he ought, I think, to know as well as any man in 
England. But it strikes me that I could suggest to him the m^ians by 
which l^e rerenue might be increased I** 



*^ He vould be glad, I should say^ if you were to do «o. But; vrhat is 
the Bature of the means you would suggest ?" 

" Merely the imposition of an additional tax." 

" Are we not sufficiently taxed already?" 

" It appears that we are not ! If we were, the income would be roffi-* 
cient to meet the expenditure." 

" In private life it sometimes happens that the expenditure esoeeds 
the income, even when, for all just and legitimate purposes, that meome 
is ample ; but I suppose that, in public afftdrs, the case is difierent<» I 
do not, of course, pretend to understand that difference, but I should 
like to know what description of tax you would suggest to the Chan- 
cellor of the Exchequer." 

** Well," said the reverend gentleman, with a peculiarly bland expres- 
sion, " that which I contemplate is a tax upon all single men abore 
forty!" 

Aunt Eleanor smiled and blushed. She knew what he mes1!lt^ A% 
Imew what would follow — she understood him as well as he eould hare 
been understood, even by a widow, but was silent. 

" I would," he continued—" I would tax those fellows to the extent 
of five-and-twenty per cent, upon their incomes. What businew hftTf 
men of that age to be single? Do you not think it disgraceftd? DoB^ 
you think that a tax of the kind ought to be imposed?" 

^ Why," said Aunt Eleanor, " it would be a 'Mvd tax." 

**As far as men arc concerned, it certainly would be; but in the 
feudal times the ladies who held fees or estates which requir^ military 
services were thus taxed, with the view of inducing them to marry, in 
order that their husbands might perform those services themselves. 

" But no tax in this case can be imposed on those grounds." 

" Very tme: still I'd tax them I I'd make them either marry or p^jr^** 

"They had better pay than be imhappy." 

" Granted! But I do not associate unhappinees with marringe: it is, 
I admit, of^^i the result ; but there are men who Avill, when there is a 
bright prospect of happiness before them, continue to live in the ^Ikade." 

" In such a case they cannot, I submit, see that prospect?" 

*^No, that's the point. They are blind — ^morally bfind: sani-bliud, 
as I have been — selfishly blind. But I'd open their eyes. V^ tex 
them ; there's nothing in life like taxation, when the object is to bring 
men to their senses. Nor would I permit thiem to occupy a whele 
house: they should merely have lodgings. Look at my hoiise; it's a 
mce house, a good house, a capital house. You might make it a ooi;a^ 
fortable house, but I can't; and as I can't, what right hare I to live i^ 
it alone?" 

" You eamiot be said to live in it alone." 

" Conventionally, an unmarried man is single, and a single man lives 
in the world morally alone. Now, I want to know why / should fire in 
the worldi alone: in other word^ I want to know why I aibottld r^Eoais 
unmarried?" 

"I see no reason why you ahouW: except, indeed, that jm arcs 
happy." 



17^ SYLVESTER SOUND 

" But, my dear madam, I am not happy. I used to be happy cer- 
tainly; but ever since I received that note I have felt a certain sort of 
something like a wish to be married. Now, I do not belong to the 
Church of Rome — I belong to the Church of England; and therefore I 
do not see why I should not enter into the marriage state. Do you see 
any just cause or impediment?" 

" Oh, dear no: none whatever." 

" Do you see why I should not marry, when marriage presents a 
bright prospt»ct of happiness?" 

"No: I really do not." 

" Then I want your advice." 

" But I have had no experience in these matters." 

" So much the better: Fd rather, my dear madam, have your advice 
—upon this point especially — than that of any other creature breathing. 
Now, suppose that I were in love — ^that is to say, suppose that I had so 
firm — so ardent an affection for a lady, that I imagined marriage to 
be absolutely essential to my happiness: suppose this, I merely say 
suppose it, and then tell me what you'd advise me to do?" 

"Really," replied Aunt Eleanor, smiling, "I'm so perfectly \mac- 
quainted with affairs of this character, that I feel quite incompetent to 
offer advice." 

" But how, in this case, do you think I ought to act?" 

"Well, really — ^I scarcely know: but I should think that if you are 
in the position you describe, you ought at once to propose to the lady." 

"Very good. But how is it to be done?" 

" I cannot give you any information upon that point." 

" Well, but how do you imagine it ought to be done?" 

" Upon my word, I cannot say. I have had so little experience in 
these affairs, that it may almost be said that I am ignorant of them." 

" But you have had offers?" 

" Oh, yes ! I have had many offers, certainly." 

"Will you do me the favour to explain to me how they were made?" 

" My dear sir — ^really — ^I scarcely know how it is possible for me to 
do so." 

" If you would, you would oblige me. I should then know exactly 
how to manage it myself" 

" Well : but upon my word, the idea of your asking me for infor- 
mation on the subject appears so excessively odd." 

" My dear madam, whom shordd I ask for information but one is able 
to give it? I pledge you my honour, I never proposed to a lady in my 
life; I cannot, therefore, be expected to know anything about the 
matter: whereas, you having had offers made you, know well how the 
business is done." 

" I really do not pretend to know anything about it." 

" I am aware that you do not pretend to know; and this absence of 
all pretension, in my judgment, constitutes one of your most admirable 
characteristics, but you nevertheless do know all about it; do you not?" 

" Upon my word — ^it seems so strange that / should be thus applied 
to." 



THE SOMNAMBULIST. J 73 

" To whom else can I apply? Now do let me know all about it/' 

" Well, but what do you wish to know?*' 

"How to propose: that's the point. I merely wish to know how 
it's done." 

" But, my dear sir, unless I have some little knowledge of the cha- 
racter of the lady, it will be quite impossible for me to tell what style 
will be likely to suit her." 

" You know her," said the reverend gentleman, mth a smile : " I 
fancy that / know her well ; but you know her infinitely better." 

"Indeed. Dear me; why whom can it be?" 

" Whom should it be? to whom is it likely I could wish to propose? 
There is but one in this world, my dear madam, and — ^you are that 
one! Yes; that's the point — ^that's it; I wish to propose to you I" 

" To me!" exclaimed Aunt Eleanor, archly. " To me?" 

" To you, my dear madam ; to you." 

" Dear me! why how came you to think of such a thing?" 

" I'll explain : when I received that letter, which I then of course 
believed had been written by Sylvester, I privately asked myself two 
or three questions. First: what had I been about? Secondly, what 
could be done? and, thirdly, what ought I to do? I answered these ques- 
tions, and those answers were — to the first, that I had been very stupid: 
to the second, that this stout fellow might be supplanted; and to the 
third, that if he coidd be, I ought to supplant him. I inspired the 
spirit of rivalry on the instant, and came up resolved on defeating this 
porpoise : I felt that he was no friend of mine, and I do really think that 
if he had appeared, I should not have been particulaiiy courteous. 
Again. I examined my heart ; I examined it minutely ; and the result of 
that examination proved that it was in reality full of affection. I had 
before no idea that that heart of mine possessed such a treasure of beauti- 
ful feelings. I found pearls of happiness — pearls, of the very existence 
of which I had been previously imconscious. I dived into the depths, 
and brought them from the caves in which they had been so long 
concealed: they were rough but pm*e, and being pure, you are the per- 
son to polish them up. I now, therefore, repeat, that I am anxious to 
propose, my dear madam, to you ; and if you'll explain how it is to be 
done, I'll buckle on my armour, and do it at once." 

" Upon my word, I cannot give you any such explanation ; nor do I 
think that you in reality need it." 

" I never did such a thing in all my life. I never before thought of 
doing such a thing. I cannot therefore be expected to know much 
about it. But I suppose that there's a fashion in these matters — a sort 
of style — a kind of form — ^which society prescribes ; is there not?*' 

" I really cannot say." 

" WeU, but pray do assist me a little?" 

"Why, what assistance can you possibly require?" 

" I require, in an affair of this description, eveiy conceivable assis- 
tance. I feel altogether at a loss. I know no more what to say than 
an infant would know, were it possible to place one in a similar position. 
What am I to say? What can I say?" 



174 mttwttiBL ¥>rjm 

"My ^te« tnfl Miy irbatftrtt ytixxt feftliagi fliay pwittpt, atid bfe as- 
sured of this, that nothing that you ttay day, Will be ftt all displtsasing 
tome." 

" WeU, now that's very kind. It*s exactly like you. I apprwjiftt^ it, 
hithttt me, as I appreciate etwy feeiittg and every pirtndple by vrhich 
jxm are guided; but then, Tm no nearer the mArk— Aot a bit! How* 
ever, do me the favour to listen for a moment, and Til make Something 
like an attempt." 

The reverend gentleiAaii then drew his thtxt nearer to the oouoh 
upon which Aunt Eleanor sftt, and having taken her hand a£^tionately 
in hii, thus proceeded: — 

"The parsonage— the house in which I live— is, as ytu are well 
aware, a nice houfte— -a substantial, well-bUilt, roomy house, with a 
garden attached — a beautiM garden — Surrounded by a capital wall: 
very well. Now, the cottage in which you reside, is a very nice cottage ; 
there is also a garden attached to that, and, albeit it is not suiTounaed 
by a wall, it is still a very beautiful garden. But do you not think, 
that if you were to leave this cottage and come to live with me in that 
hcmte, you would make me one of the happiest men alive? and, do you 
UOt believe that I would endeavour to promote }^ur happiness by tU 
the means at my command?" 

" That I do most fervently believe.'* 

''Very good! Again. The affair, I apprehend, might thus be 
managed: I might, some fine morning, proOeed to this cottage and take 
you to church, and when the marriage ceremony had been performedj 
We might leave the village for a month or so, and then retm-n to that 
house together, and live in peace, harmony, and love. Do yoti not 
think it might be managed thus?" 

" Certainly, it might be thus managed.*' 

"And do you not also think that we had better thus manage it?" 

** That is another question, altogether I" 

**I am aware of it: but what are your feelings upon the point — that 
is to say — what is yotlr impression?" 

" Why, my impression is that — to use parliamentary language — this 
debate had better be adjourned: in other words, that we had better 
wait until we get back again to Cotherstone, and calmly talk the matter 
Over there." 

" Very good ! I am not an impetuous man : 1 have no desire at all 
to be precipitate; but you really must promise me this, that if in the 
interim any stout individual should in reality solicit you hand, you will 
not let him have it." 

" I will promise this, and more : I will promise that if any individual 
should do so, no matter whether he be stout or thin, I'll not marry 
without your consent." 

The reverend gentleman, hereupon, kissed the hand he held, and, 
having done so, felt perfectly happy. 

"And now," said he, after a pause, during which they most affec- 
tionately reciprocated each others* glances, "wheu do you think of 
returning?" 



tH£ aonCSAXBXTMT. 175 

" Whjr, I scarcely know," w^pli^ Aunt Ekattor; "t am imadous to 
see Sylvester settled before I leave town." 

" Exactly. He is to be a surgeon, of Course?" 

" Yes ; that has been decided upon, and Dr. Delolme, who is a kind, 
good creature, is now gone to have an interview with a gentleman, 
whose talents are distinguished, whom he holds in high esteem, and to 
whom he is anxious that Sylvester should be articled." 

" This may be arranged then in three or four days?" 

"Oh yes: it will, I expect, be very soon settled.*^ 

"And will you, when this has been settled, have an3rthing at all tO 
detain you in town?" 

" Nothing. I think of returning on the following day." 

" Oh, then we bad better return together — ^that is, if you hate no 
objection?" 

<< I can have no objection. I shall be, indeed, most happy to acoom* 
pany you." 

" Then let it be so — ^I need not explain to you hoW happy / ihall 
feel !— let it be so." 

" You will dine with us to-day, of course?" 

"I scarcely know. I dined here yesterday!" 

" Oh, but if you are not engaged, you must ! The doctor, I know, 
expects that you will." 

" Then I will. I have scarcely time," he observed, on looking at his 
watch, "to run back to the inn, but I will. The doctor's a fine ifeUow, 
and you are a fine fellow — ^that is to say, I don't mean exactly that, but 
— ^you know what I mean. Adieu, \mtil dinner-time! Eleanor!" he 
added, taking both her hands in his, and gazing Upon her, with an 
unfeigned expression of fervour, "God bless you!" 

He then left the room, and Aunt Eleanor, who felt very happy, went 
up stairs to dress. 



GHAPtElB XXn. 

TOM APPEAES TO QIYB BVIPENCB IN A CASK, 

After dinner, at which they were joined by Mr. Scholefield — the 
surgeon to whom Sylvester was about to be articled, and who ate 
nothing but fish, bread, and pastry, and drank nothing but pure cold 
water — Sylvester, as well as Aunt Eleanor and the reverend gentleman, 
was so delighted -with his conversation, that Tom experienced the 
utmost difficulty in inducing his young fiiend to accompany him, as 
usual, to the hospital. He did, however, eventually succeed, and 
they started, and heard the lecture for the evening delivered; and, at 
the conclu8ion,/roni received a short message fh>m Julia, of which the 
substance was, that she wished to see him for one 2!nom«^li; 



176 SXhYX&TM^tL SOU^D 

** What's id the widd dowl" exclaimed Tom. "There's sobethidg 

bovidg. What does she wadt with heT^ 
" You'll go in, of course?" said Sylvester. 
« Yes, rU go id. I bust go id!" 
" Then shiJl I walk about here, or go towards home?" 
** Oh, just walk about, I shall be but a very few bidutes : I odly wadt 

to hear what's the batter." 

" Very well, then I'll walk up and down here until you return." 
Tom then went into the house, and as he entered, Julia was evidently 

disappointed: she did not at all expect to see him alone, having heard, 

from one of the students, that Sylvester had been in the theatre with 

him. 

"What's up?" inquii'cd Tom. "Is there adythidg the batter?" 
"Oh, dear me, no!" returned Julia, when, as several students were 

impatient for porter, she added, " I'll speak to you in a moment." 

Having supplied the immediate demands of the thirsty, she returned 

to Tom, and said, " How is your friend?" 

"Which?" inquired Tom. "Do you ibagide I've odly wud?" 

"I mean your yoimg friend: him whom you call Sylvester." 

"Oh! he's weU edough." 

" He will not be here to-night, I presvune?" 

" Doe, he cad't stadd dridk : he's dot beed buch used to it." 

"Is that the only cause of his not coming?" 

"Why, what other cause do you ibagide he cad have?" 

"I was fearftilthat I had been unfortunate enough to offend him." 

"Offedd hib? Pooh! dodsedse: you cad't offedd hibT 

"Are you sure that I have not done so?" 

"Quite." 

" Then I am happy. I thought that I might perhaps have given him 

some offence, and if I had, the consciousness of having done so, would 

have been indeed very, very painfril to me." 

"Bake your bide easy," cried Tom, " about that. I dever kdew you 

to give offedce to ady bad alive, add I'b perfectly sure that you have 

dot offedded hib." 

" Then bring him again with you, that I also may be sure. There 

is no necessity for him to diink, not the slightest. Will you bring him 

in with you to-morrow evening?" 

" He'll dot be here, I kdow, to-borrow evedidg. But Fll see about 

it." 

" Do, there's a good creatui'e, and then I shall be satisfied." 

" Well, but I say, old girl, is this all you wadted be for?" 

" I merely wished to be assui'ed upon that one point." 

" Oh, that's all right edough. Let's have wud pull at the pewter, add 

thed I'U be off." 

The porter was brought, and Tom had " one pull," and managed to 

pull it all out of the pot, and when Julia had begged of him not to 

forget, he bade her adieu for the night, and left. 

" Well," said Sylvester, when Tom had rejoined him| " was it any- 
thing of importance?" 



fB£ SOHNAMBVtt&T. lt7 

^' Oh, she berely wadted to ask be about a youdg fellow whob the 
fadcied she had ofiedded." 

" How does she look?" 

" Buch as usual; just about the sabe." 

Tom thought it wise to keep Sylvester unconscious of Julia's anxiety, 
and he did so ; and, in order that the subject might not be dwelt upon 
then, he reverted to the conversation of Mr. Scholefield, and thus tuxiied 
the current of Sylvester's thoughts. 

That night, Tom decided upon sitting up alone. He had privately 
decided upon this, feeling certain that if his intention were known to 
Sylvester, he should never be able to get him to bed ; while he thought 
that it would be highly incorrect to keep him out of it, so languid as he 
almost invariably appeared to be. 

When, therefore, they had had their usual supper in the study, Tom 
saw Sylvester to his room, shook hands with him, and bade him good 
night; and then, making all the noise he conveniently could, boimced 
into his own room, and slammed the door, and locked it, of course with 
the view of inducing all whom it might concern to believe that he was 
in reality gone to bed. But it was not so : he remained in the room a 
short time — say ten minutes — and then, having carefully imlocked the 
door, crept noiselessly back to his study. 

And there he sat ; and there he continued to sit — with a little dark 
lantern shut up by his side — sometimes smoking, and sometimes drink- 
ing; but constantly thinking, and earnestly Avishing, thai some one 
might do him the favour to appear. He was fully prepared, both 
morally and physically, to receive any guest who might honour him 
with a visit; he had resolved on doing all in his power to serve him — 
that is, to serve him out — and it is extremely rational to cherish the 
belief that, if any one had appeared then, his reception would have been 
most warm ; but tlie prospect which Tom had with pleasure portrayed, 
and which he viewed and improved with peculiar delight, began about 
half-past two to recede. He had, with the utmost fortitude, sat for two 
hours — ^proposing and solving an infinite variety of surgical questions, 
having direct and immediate reference to the dislocated joints and 
broken bones of his contemplated victim — and, as no one had appeared, 
he certainly did begin to think that the pleasures of his imagination 
were not about to be realised. 

He was not, however, at all disposed to give the thing up! No: he 
filled his German pipe again, and ignited his German tinder, in order 
that the room might not even for an instant be illumined, and again 
philosophically enveloped himself in clouds. He had, however, scarcely 
sent forth twenty whiffs, when he fancied that he heard a noise below, 
and starting up on the instant grasped his stick, and felt that the time 
was come. 

But the sounds — ^which he believed were those of footsteps — ^receded, 
and gradually died away: when, as he imagined that he might have 
been mistaken, he resimied both his seat and his pipe. 

Now it strangely enough happened that, about an hour after this— 
that is to say, about half-past three — ^policeman Ninety-nine did, on 

o 



178 jGniyxsxi^ 9ouin> 

going hia rounds,' perceive thftt the street-door of Mr. Delolme was 
slightly open. 

"What's the odds," said Ninety-nine, confidentiallv to himself; 
" that there isn't a burglary here? I shall make something of this ; I 
should like a burglary, and I ought to have one, for I haven't had any 
luck lately. Let's have a look " ne added, going very quietlv up to the 
door; "that'll do — ^that'll do. I shall nail at lea«t one of em. Bur- 
glaries always look well on the sheet." 

He then glided to the opposite side on liis toea — ^the proximity of a 
policeman being betrayed by his heels — ^and having established himself 
m the shade of a doorway, drew forth his truncheon, and watched. 
Nothing in natm^e could surpass the vigilance with which he kept his 
eye upon that door, nor cotdd the ears of eveu a cat prick up and 
expand more instantaneously than his ears pricked up and expanded on 
hearing the slightest unusual soimc}. That a burgl^ had been com- 
mitted he fervently hoped, and felt that if it should prove to have been 
accompanied by murder, it would be all the better for him. He would 
give no alarm; not a bit of it. Had he even known that murder might 
mus have been prevented, he was too wide awake to spoil suoh a &xe 
chance by any premature interference. 

Having, for nearly half an hour, kept his eyes, e^s, mouth, and 
imagination, on the stretch, he heard some one approaching, and on 
loolang up the street saw the figure of a man 'vvafloftg leisurely down 
on the opposite side with his hands in his great-coat, pockets, Under 
these circumstances Ninety-^nine, of course, took but very little notice 
of him ; but when he saw him enter the house of Dr. Delolme, and 
heard him, when he had entered, close the door and deliberately 
bolt it, he felt in an instant prepared to swear that that man was his 
enemy Tom. 

Having deliberated for a moment, and recollecting tliat the doctor had 
told him to ring a certain bell in the event of his seeing any one again 
upon the parapet, he opened his bull's-eye and rang that bell, and the 
doctor in due time appeared at tlie window. 

"Who's there?" he demanded. 

"Come down, sir," replied Ninety-nine, in a confidential tone; 
*' there's a dodge, sir," 

"A what?" 

"A dodge, sir; you'll find it all outj if you Will but come down, sir : 
you'll soon see who's who, sir, and know what's wbftt." 
. The doctor closed the window, and having slipped on his pantaloons 
and dressing-gown, descended, expecting, of oourfie, that the parapet was 
again the scene of action. 

"I am sorry, sir," said Ninety-ninej on being admitted, ^♦I'm indeed 
very sorry to inform you that your son, sir, is endangering your 
property veiy strangely. This door, sir, has been open for more than 
two hours, sir-^r-wide open. Of oourfie it was my duty to watch it, and 
I did so: I watched it imtil your son returned, which was just about a 
minute before I rox^g the bell," 

" J« it posaiWel" cried ^ doctcirs '*rt4 left tto ioov «>pen! Just 




//f//// /////<• r/:///KJ /// /r^ // 



y 



/ 



THIS ftOHWAMBITIiXST. 179 

come up with me; Til investigate this-— but quietly: don't make the 
slightest noise." 

"All light, sir: a mouse shaVt hear me." 

The doctor then— ^followed by Ninety-nine^'-aficended, and on goipg 
into Tom's room found, not only that Tom was not there but that he 
had not been in bed at all. 

"Well,** exclaimed the doctor, "this is, at all events, coiX}lusiv0« 
But where can he be?" 

" Up stairs perhaps, sir," suggested ^inety-ninet 

" Very likely. But let us go up quietly." 

Ninety-nine then took the lead, and as Tom«-»»who W4S still at his 
post, and who had heard sounds below wHch could not be mistakeiH** 
had prepared himself to receive any friend who might hAppen to look 
in upon him. Ninety-nine no sooner entered the Study thftn be received 
a blow which felled him in an instant to the g7(mnd« 

"Who's there?" cried the doctor. 

'<'Tis I," replied Tom, amazed on beariAg the dootor's voice. 

"TomI what^ in the name of heaven, do you mean?'* 

" O-o-p-ol" cried Ninety-nine. 

Tom opened his little d^u'k lanterui and having seen Ninety-mne 
stretched upon the floor, felt that he had made some mistake.* 

"I ask you again," said the doctor, <<what you mean by tliis 
abominable conduot?" 

"What abobidable codduct?" cried Tom. " Tve beed sitfcMg up here 
with the view of catchidg that scouddrel whose budkey tricks have. so 
buch addoyed us," 

" It is fdse !" cried the doctor* 

"What's false?" 

" Every word that you have uttered, Ymi have not, sir^ been sitting 
up here. You have been out, sir !" 

**OutI what, out of the house do you bead?" 

"Yes, sir!" 

"What, do you bead sidce I cabe id frob the lecture?** 

"YesI" 

"Doe, rb blest if I haver 

"How can you deny it, Tom? This policeman h^te, saw you onter 
just now,'* 

"Iddeedl What, this fellow? WeU, if he did he did, add t/ he did^ 
he's a datura! curiosity! I bust have a look at At^." 

Ninety-nine, on being rolled over by Tom, conceived it to be his 
duty, aa a policeman and as a man, to pretend to have been dreadMly 
iiy ured ; but having been in reality mOre frightened than hurt, Tom socm 
made him assume a sitting posture on the floor; and, having done soj 
exclaimed, "Didety-^u2e/ Why, this is Didety-dide! What does he 
pretedd to kdow about the batter?" 

"Policeman," said the doctor, " is this, or Is this not the person whom 
ytm saw just now enter the house?" 

** ft is, sir#'' replied Ninety^nine 5 « and I'll swear it." 
' ^ Yoa will," esdaimad T<mi. 

o 3 



l80 8tLV£8T£R S0I71li> 

"Yes!" cried Ninety-nine^ who was seized with so strong a fit ot 
energy, that he started to his feet on the instant; '' I ^vill.^ 

" Why, you wretched, cadaverous, udhappy lookidg adibal, what do 
you bead? what's your botive id cobidg here, prepared to swear to a 
falsdiood so bodstrous? You're too codtebptible to be revedged upod, 
or rd take it out dow: I cad but spurd you, add treat your accusatiod 
with scord." 

" This will not do, Tom," said the doctor, severely. " This will no 
longer do for me. I'll at once put a stop to it. I'll not be thus annoyed 
night after night." 

" Well, but / have dot addoyed you !" cried Tom ; " you've dot beed 
addoyed by beT 

'' I have, sir, and you know it!" 

" I kdow," replied Tom, " that I have dot." 

" But here is proof of it." 

" What proof? the proof idvolved id the evidedce of this codsubbate 
wretch? The bagistrate who would believe hib od his oath ought to 
be deprived of his cobbissiod." 

" The idea," continued the doctor, *' of prowling about in the middle 
of the night, and leaving the street-door open ! I'm ashamed of you — 
perfectly ashamed of you! I couldn't have supposed that you would be 
guilty of an act so monstrous." 

"It's of doe use," said Tom, "I kdow it's of doe use! but I tell you, 
&ther, agaid add agaid, that, sidce twelve o'clock, I've dot stirred frob 
this roob." 

" I'll not believe it," said the doctor; " I will not believe it." 

" I should think no<," interposed Ninety-nine. 

" Siledce, you ugly abortiod !" cried Tom, whom the sneer of Ninety- 
nine had enraged ; " if I have adother word od the subject frob you, I'll 
walk id!" 

"You shall walk out, sir!" said the doctor; "you shall not remain 
here: I'll not have the house disturbed in this way." 

" The disturbadce has dot beed created by be." 

" Go to bed, sir, and let me have no more of it: I'll no longer tolerate 
such practices. Go to bed." 

The doctor and Ninety-nine then left the room — ^Ninety-nine, with 
great discretion, taking the lead — ^but he had no sooner reached the top 
of the stairs, than that discretion forsook him, and, turning to Tom, 
said, "/'// nail you!" an observation which so excited Tom's ire, that he 
rushed at him on the instant; but, before he could reach him, Ninety- 
nine, in his anxiety to get away, slipped, and glided to the bottom — not 
smoothly^ no ; but bumping in his progi'ess the bottom of his spine, and 
causing him not only to call out, ^^ohF but to pull a face, of which the 
prevailing expression would have puzzled Lavater himself. 

." Keep back!" cried the doctor, " I command you;" and Tom, who 
felt that Ninety-nine had had quite enough of it, did not follow him up 
—or, rather, down ; but the doctor descended, and assisted him to rise, 
and having done so, led him into the drawing-room, and gave him some 
brandy, and placed in his hand a small piece of that metal which has, 



THE S01£NAHBULI8T. 181 

in this snblunary sphere, more influence than either mind, honour, reli- 
gion, or love. 

In falling, however, Ninety-nine awoke Sylvester, and as he came to 
the door, in order to ascertain what was the matter, Tom went into his 
room with the lantern in his hand, and placing himself upon the edge of 
the bedstead, looked as if all had been lost. 

** What is the meaning of this?" inquired Sylvester. " What has 
occurred?" 

« Get idto bed, Syl," said Tom, " add I'll tell you all about it." 

Sylvester accordingly got into bed, when Tom, having struck the 
lantern in the face, commenced — 

" Syl," said he, " I'b a victib. But that you kdow. I was always a 
victib. I was bord to be a victib. I shall becobe id a short tibe wud 
of those predestidariad swells who believe that a bad's actiods are 
chalked out by Fate, add that he bust walk Fate's chalks, whether he 
likes theb or dot. Just look here! Last dight I decided od sittidg up 
alode,' id order to catch that scabp who has created so buch addoyadce. 
I did'dt tell you a word about it, because I kdew that you'd wadt to sit 
up with be, add thought that you'd buch better dot. Well, I sat up : I 
sat frob the tibe you wedt to bed, till about half ad hour ago, whed, 
plaidly hearidg footsteps od the stairs, I prepared to receive, as I fadcied, 
the fellow by whob the whole of these disturbadces have beed created. 
Well, presedtly the study door opeded, add id walked a bad, add I gave 
hib ^vud which laid hib low, whed, of co\u*se to by utter abazeb^dt, 
I heard the voice of the goverdor ! It's a blessidg the goverdor didd't 
edter first!" 

" Then whom did you strike?" 

"Didety-dide the policebad! the fellow who said he could swear to 
by shirt!" 

" Well, but what brought him there?" 

" I'll tell you. I dod't thidk he likes be : at all evedts I feel codvidced 
he doesd't like be buch, add if he does, he likes the goverdor's buddy 
buch bore ; add hedce, id order to get a little of it, he trubped up a tale 
to the effect that oiur street-door had beed oped — ^ivide oped for two 
hours ; that he had kept his eye upod it, id order to ascertaid what was 
goidg od; add that evedtually he saw he edter the house, add thed heard 
be close the door, add bolt it!" 

"Is it possible!" 

" Did you ever hear of adythidg so abobidable? Well, with this tale 
artfully prepared, he radg the dight bell — ^which I couldd't hear— add 
whed the wretch had related all that his thick pig's head had allowed 
hib to codceive, up cabe the goverdor idto by roob, add, of course, whed 
he foudd that I had dot beed id bed, the tale of the wretch was cod- 
firbed!" 

'a see." 

" But beidg daturally adxious to kdow where I was, he cabe up to 
the study; add, as I said before, it's a bercy he didd't cobe first, for if 
I'd gived hib the blow, which luckily fell to the lot of Didety-dide, I 
should have beed wretched for life. However, Didety-dide got it, add 



182 STLTBSTSB fOUKD 

it lenred hib right: I dod't care a dtraw about that: all I care for is 
this, that, as I was dot id bed, as I'd dot beed id bed, add as he foudd 
be id the study with by clothes od — ^the goverdor firbly believes Didety- 
dide, add thus ab I victibized agaidf 

<< Welly it certainly did look suspicious." 

" I kdow it — ^I feel it — ^I see that, udder the circubstadces, the gover- 
dor is perfectly justified id believidg the tale of that biserable fat-headed 
wretch: it is the very codsciousdess of that which host galls be!" 

" But, of course, you have not been out?" 

" Certaidly doti Frob the tibe you wedt to bed, till the tibe they 
cabe up, I dever, for a sidgle bobedt, boved frob the study. Besides, is 
it likely — ^is it like adythidg likely — that I should be such a codsubbate 
dodkey as to go out and leave the door oped for ady wud to walk id that 
pleased? Is the idea of by doidg such a thidg at all ratiodal?" 

" Such conduct would certainly have been very indiscreet." 

'< Iddiscreet! Why, if I thought that it would ever be possible for 
be to cobbit such ad act of iddiscretiod as that, I should deeb byself fit 
for a ludatic asylub." 

'< I cannot imagine how he came to think of such a thing." 

'* Oh, these fellows will do adythidg for buddy: it's a batter to theb 
of little ibportadcc what." 

" Well, it certainly is strange-— very strange— that he should have 
fixed upon this particular morning." 

'< Exactly! That's whore it is! It is that very thidg which gets 
over be! Had he fixed upod ady other, I should have beed, of course, 
id bed add asleep. But it was to be, I suppose. I kdow I shall sood 
becobe a predestidariad. But isd't it edough to bake a bad hit his 
head oflf ?" 

" It is, certainly, very unfortimatc." 

"By usual luck! Dothidg bore cad be said of it. I always have 
luck. I cabe idto the world to be lucky. Til have by dativity cast 
vrud of these days, add sec udder what lucky pladet I was bord. 
But I'll have doe bore of it. The thidg is settled dow, Syl: doe bore 
watchidgfor be: dor will I attcbpt after this to discover the cause of om* 
recedt addoyadces. Dot a bit of it! Til give the thidg up. If a legiod 
of ibps were to haudt the house dight after dight, Syl, I'd dot bove a 
peg ! The veiy efforts which I bake to clear byself tedd but to idvolve 
be bore deeply : like the fly id the web, the bore I try to get out, the 
bore firbly I'b held. Ill give it up, cobe what bay. I'll pludge idto 
bed at by usual tibe, fvdd get up at by usual tibe, add dot before. Doe 
batter wiat capers bay be cut, or what pradks bay be played : that bis- 
chievous devil, whoever he is, bay stick a hot brick upod wud of the 
chibdey-pots, add dadce upod that, if he likes: the bood bay be abused, 
add the stars bay be abused, but he sha'd't abuse he; IVe had edough 
of his abusebedt: he dod't get be to rud after hib agaid; I'll hoTaWy seal 
by head to the pillow, although I should dearly like to catch hib! You 
see it plays vedgcadce with be; — ^it destroys at wodce all the goverdor's 
codfid^oe, add places be id the positiod of a thoughtless, reckless, 
characterless scabp 1 That's the poidt, Syl— that's what I look at ! Up 



THE 80MKAMBITLIST. 183 

to this tibe, the goverdor has reposed the bost udlibited codfidedce id by 
hodo\ir ; but dow, of course, he ibagides that I seek to deceive hib, add 
that, too, by tellidg bead, deliberate falsehoods." 

" Well, but when you have explained all to him," suggested Sylvester, 
"surely that confidence will be restored?" 

"I fear dot, Syl: day, I cad hardly expect it, the circubstadtial 
evidedce is so strodg agaidst be. Bady a bad has beed hadged upod 
collateral, or circubstadtial, evidedce far less conclusive. However, 
sobethidg bust be dode. I'll go to bed add thidk about it. Call be 
whed you rise: I bay dot be awake; add, udless I put id by appearadce 
at breakfast, the great swell will kdow all about it, if she doesd*t kdow 
all about it dow. Therefore, dod't forget to call be?" 

" I'll not." 

"Thed I'll be off add get a widk or two, if I cad: I cad't expect to 
have huch rest — ^iddeed — 

" 'There's do rest, but the grave, for the pilgrib of love.' " 

Poor Tom! He shook hands with Sylvester and left him, and turned 
into bed with a heavy heart; but he soon went to sleep— very soon — 
and slept soundly, until Sylvester summoned him to breakfast. 

The doctor had not explained the affair to Mrs. Dololme. This, Tom 
perceived the moment he entered the room, and, in consequence, felt com- 
paratively comfortable ; but he saw that the doctor was angry with him 
still, although the expression of that anger was concealed from the rest. 
Now, as fliis was the day on which Sylvester was to leave the doctor's 
house, and make that of Mr. Scholefield his home — ^it having been 
arranged the previous evening, that he should live with him a month 
before the articles were signed — ^the talents of Mr. Scholefield, and the 
prospects of Sylvester, formed the chief topics of conversation during 
breakfast. With Mr. Scholefield himself. Aunt Eleanor was delighted, 
and so, indeed, was Sylvester, although that delight was in some degree 
subdued by a variety of youthful apprehensions ; and while even Mrs. 
Delolme confessed that she thought him an amiable person, the doctor 
bore testimony not only to liis high professional abilities, but to his ex- 
cellent qualities as a man. All were, therefore, satisfied that Sylvester's 
prospects were, as far as they could then be viewed, bright; and when 
the doctor had endeavoured to impress upon Sylvester tibe propriety of 
pursuing whatever course of study Mr. Schol^eld might suggest, he 
rose from the table and ^^dthdrew. 

He had scarcely, however, entered the library, when his servant came 
to inform him that a policeman had called, and was anxious to see him 
immediately. The doctor, of course, imagined that this was Ninety- 
nine, and directed the servant to show him in at once; but when he 
found that it was not, he was filled with apprehension: it struck him in 
an instant that something had happened to Ninety-nine, and that pro- 
bably his fall had proved fatal. 

"I beg pardon," said the policeman, with appropriate respect; "yoiu* 
name, sir, is Dr. Delolme?" 
**It is," replied the doctor; 



184 gfLYmtfOBM, flOUHB 

"Too hare a Mm, I beliere, sirr 

"I hare." 

^ His presence is i^nired at the polkx-oflke, Bow-stzeety imme^^ 

''For idiat pnrpoeer 

^ To give evidoice in a case of robbery and assault.'* 

''A case of robbenf and assault.^ 

"Yes, sir. He is, I beliere, the only witness." 

'^ Well, but whm did it occurr 

"About three o'clock this morning, I believe, sir: I dcm't know the 
whole of the particulars, but I think that it happened about that time." 

The doctor rang the bell, and desired the servant to send Tom in. As 
iar as his fears for Ninety-nine were concerned, he felt greatly relieved; 
but every doubt having reference to the truth of Ninety-nine's accusa- 
tion against Tom vani^ied. 

"Now, sir," said the doctor, when Tom appeared, "you are wanted 
at Bow-street police-office, inmiediately." 

"What forr inquired Tom. 

" You witnessed a robbery this morning, did you not?" 

" The odly robbery I witdessed, was a robbery of reputatiod, add that 
reputatiod was by owd." 

"But you witnessed a robbery in the street, about three o'clock this 
morning?*' 

"Who says so?" demanded Tom, fiercely. "Do you?" he added, 
turning to the policeman. 

"I know nothing of it myself," replied the man. 

" Do you kdow, Didety-dide? Has this, too, beed got up by hib?" 

" I know nothing of the particulars," returned the policeman. " All 
I know about the matter is this, that I was sent here to request your 
immediate attendance at the office." 

"Oh, /'// go!" said Tom. "I see how it is. Add,*' he added, 
addressing the doctor, " I hope you'll go with be." 

" / will go with you, sir." 

" Do so: I wish you to do so; add if I fide that that wretch has beed 
trubpidg up adother charge agaidst be, I'll have the dubber off his coat, 
add the coat off his back. I'll write to the cobbissioders at ^v^ldce : 1*11 
dot be thus addoyed by a fellow like that." 

The doctor again rang the bell, and having ascertained that the car- 
riage was at the door, he directed the policeman to get on the box and 
they started. 

During their progress to Bow-street not a word was uttered by either 
the doctor or Tom : the doctor was anxious for silence to be preserved, 
and Tom felt no inclination to break it; nor, when they had arri^-^ed, 
did a syllable pass between them. The carriage door was opened, and 
they alighted in sil6nce; and on passing through a passage heard a 
fellow bawling " Mr. Delolme!" The policeman then led the way into 
the office, and foimd that the case was then on — that the prosecutor had 
already given his evidence, and that he had then just gone out of the 
office to look for his witness — the magistrate having consented to wait 
a few minutes, in order that he might be produced. An intimation was 




r / / 



THE 80MKAMBULI8T. 186 

therefore given that the witness was in attendance, and Tom was ushered 
into the box and sworn. 

During the performance of this solemn ceremony, the magistrate was 
relating, across the table, an anecdote, which caused the clerk, as a 
natural matter of duty, to roar; and when Tom had kissed the book, he 
looked well at the prisoner, who was dressed in the most fashionable 
style, but whom he didn't know from Adam. 

" Well," said the clerk, addressing Tom, when he felt that he had 
laughed sufficiently long to satisfy the magistrate, " what's your name?" 

" Thobas Delolbe." 

** What d'you say?'' 

" Thobas Delolbe." 

" Speak up, sirl" 

" Thobas Delolbe!" repeated Tom, in a voice of thunder. 

** Fm not deaf," said the clerk. 

" Oh!" replied Tom, <* I thought you were." 

" Thobas Delolbe," said the clerk, as he proceeded to write it down. 
" Thobas: how do you spell Thobas — ^with a b?" 

" With a br said Tom. " You cad spell it with a 6 if you like : I 
always spell it with an ebT 

" Oh, an ebP* said the clerk, as he winked at the magistrate. " Very 
good: and do you spell Delolbe with an eb too?" 

"Why, of course." 

" I only ask for information. — Thobas Delolbe. Well, Mr. Thobas 
Delolbe, what are you?" 

" A studedt of bed'cidel" 

" A student of what, sir?" demanded the clerk, who could not resist 
laughing; nor could the magistrate — nor, indeed, could the doctor, 
although he felt vexed at the time — ^^ A student of what?" 

" Of bed*cider replied Tom indignantly, and thereby set the whole 
court in a roar. 

" Of ftccTcicfe.'" said the clerk, when the laughter had in some degree 
subsided. "I see! A student of bed'cide — ^very good. How do you 
spell bed'cide?" 

"How do I spell bed'cide?" cried Tom, who felt highly indignant; 
while the court was convulsed with laughter, in which even the prisoner 
joined : " what do you bead?" 

" I mean," said the clerk, having recovered the power to speak, " I 
mean to ask how you spell bed'cide?" 

"Add do you bead to say that you dod't kdow how to spell it? If so 
I should like to dose you with it till you do. I should feel great 
pleasiu-e id thus curidg you of the igdoradee with which you are 
afflicted." 

" Well," said the clerk, who didn't much like this, " but is bed'cide 
spelt with a iv or a 6.^" 

"Aw; or a ft, you fool!" said Tom, looking contemptuously at the 
clerk, who really began to feel himself woimded. 

"Like Thobas, it's spelt with an eft, no doubt!" observed the magis- 
trate ; and this — being the magistrate's joke— was on the instant hailed with 



188 0TLYE8TSB SOUND 

the londefit burst of laughter ever even heard within those walls. The clerk, 
the policeman, the turnkeys, the crier, and the fellow who administered 
the solemn oaths, roctred; while the prisoner-— who was a student of 
human nature — shook his sides on speculation, conceiving, of course, that 
the magistrate's gratitude would prompt him to repudiate the evidence. 

" Well, I suppose it is spelt with an «ft," said the clerk, when he and 
the other impartial judges of a joke had become exhausted. " You 
are a student of bed'cide, you say?" 

" Is this the comi; of Bobus?** inqidred Tom, looking round with an 
expression of imperturbable gravity, which threw tibe whole court 
again into convulsions. " Cobus presides here if Bobus does dot! Ab 
I,^' he added, addressing the magistrate, as soon as his voice could be 
heard, " ab I id a place sacred to justice? — a place id which solebdity 
is supposed to reigd, add of which digdity is supposed to be wud of the 
chief characteristics? — a place id which obediedce to the law is taught, 
add respect for those who adbidister the law idspired? I ab— I presube 
that I ab— add yet I who have taked a soleb oath to ibpart wiUi truth 
that which I kdow, ab bet with dothidg but buffoodery, ragged jokes, 
add ailly laughter. That bad's life," he added, pointing to the prisoner, 
" his very life bay, for ought I kdow, be id peril, add yet you teach hib, 
add all who are here, to view the adbidistratiod of justice as a jest.'' 

The officials again felt it to be their duty to laugh, but the magistrate 
clearly didn't like it at all, and more especially as Tom's rebi^e was 
bailed in the body of the court with applause. He, therefore, assuming 
an aspect of gravity, said, " Let us proceed with the business of the 
court." 

" I thidk it high tibe that we should," said Tom, and another laugh 
burst from the officials. 

^^ Silencer shouted the magistrate, sternly; and "Silence!" was in- 
dignantly reiterated by the crier, who had been making more noise than 
any other man in court. 

"Now, sir," said the magistrate, determined to be severe upon Tom, 
who, however, was not at all afraid of him, " what do you know about 
this?" 

"About what?'* 

" About what! Why this robbery." 

" Dothidg." 

" Nothing ! You are a witness in this case, are you not?" 

" I ab placed id the positiod of a witdess." 

" Then what do you mean by sapng that you know nothing of it?" 

" I bead, by sayidgthat I kdow dothidg of it, that I kdow dothidg of it." 

" Then what did you come here for?" 

" That's the very poidt which I ab adxious to ascertaid !" 

" What's the meaning of all this? Do you know sir, that I have the 
power to commit you?" 

"CobbitJg.'" cried Tom. 

" Ay, sir ; commit you." 

"You bay have the power, but you dare dot, I apprehedd, exercise 
that power without sufficient cause.^' 



THS 0OtDlABaitTlII»f. Ii7 

"I shall be justified, sir, by your refbsal to give evidence." 
"I have do evidedce to give I I have sword to speak the truth, the 
whole truth, add dothidg but the truth: I respect tnat oath, add whed 
I solebly declare that I kdow dothidg whatever of this robbeiy, the 
truth, the whole truth, add dothidg but the truth, is idvolved id that 
solebd declaratiod." 

^^ Have a care, sir I have a care T' exclaimed the magistrate. '^ How 
long have you known the prisoner?*' 

" How lodg have I kdowd hib?" 

"Yes, sir: that's the question. How long have you known him?" 

" Well," said Tom, deliberately taking out his watch, " sobewhere 
about twedty bidutes." 

" Come, come, sir ; I'm not to be trifled with : these ingenious evasions 
will not do here." 

" What idgedious evasiods? You asked be how lodg the prisoder 
had beed kdowd to be: I told you about twedty bidutes. Is there ady 
evasiad id that?" 

" Are you not one of his associates?" 

" Wud of his associates?" 

" Aye! one of his associates. Come now, answer that question." 

"It is albost too codtebptible to be adswered ; but I'll adswer it by 
statidg, with all the iddigdatiod at by cobbadd, that I ab dot." 

" Oh, none of your infignation, sir ; it will not do here. Answer my 
questions plainly. You have never been in any way connected with 
hun?" 

"Dever." 

" You don't know him?" 

"I do dot." 

" You never saw him before in yoiir life, I dare say?" 

"I dever did." 

" No : I don't suppose you ever did." 

At this stage of the proceedings the doctor would have interfered, with 
the view of expostulating with the magistrate, but that he felt that Tom 
would be a match for him yet. 

" Is he known to the police?" resumed the magistrate, with infinite 
significance ; and, doubtless, had Ninety-nine been there, he would have 
given Tom a character; but he was not, and the rest knew nothing at 
all of him. 

" How do you get your living?" inquired his worship. 

" What do you bead by by lividg?" said Tom. 

" How do you support yourself?" 

" Doe how. I dod't support byself at all." 

" Who supports you?" 

"By father." 

" Oh, then you have a father, have you?" 

"I have." 

"Ah: and what is he?" 

"Adoctorof bed'cide?" 

** Oh ; he's a doctor, too. A respectable man, I dare say?" 



''He is a bad who occupies, add who deserves td occapj,^ fiur Higher 
social positiod thad ady other bad id this court. JJi?/' added Tom, 
with a sarcastic smile, ^*He is a gedtlebad.** 

" Oh ! no doubt. Is he herer 

''I believe so: he cabe id the carriage with be.** 

" Oh! the carriage! Ah! what carriage?" 

** What carriage? — ^why, our carriage ! Is it at all probable that we 
should cobe to see so courteous add so distidguished a persod in a 
jarvey?" 

The clerk here privately expressed his conviction that, notwithstand- 
ing all that Tom had said, he and the prisoner belonged to the same 
gang; and when the magistrate had winked at the clerk with great 
sigmficance, he suddenly said — 

" Where's the prosecutor? You are a very clever fellow," turning to 
Tom, " but I thii^ that we shall know each other better, by-and-bye." 

The prosecutor, who had imagined that this was altogether another 
case, was then directed by one of the officers to step forward, and he 
did so. 

" I think I understood you," said the magistrate, " that this robbery 
was committed about three o'clock?" 

" About three." 

" Very well. Now, how far was your witness from the prisoner at 
the time?" 

" A very short distance! He was, in fact, walking just behind him." 

"I thought so!" 

" What !" exclaimed Tom, addressing the prosecutor fiercely, " do you 
bead to to say that / was walkidg behide hib?" 

'* You!" cried the prosecutor, in a state of amazement — " No! — You 
are not my witness !" 

"What's the meaning of it all?" said the magistrate. '* I don't imder- 
stand it. If," he added, addressing Tom — " If you are not the prose- 
cutor's mtness, why did you come here?" 

"I cabe here because a policebad called to idforb be that by presedce 
was required ibbediately. That's all I kddw about the batter." 

" Well, but why did you get into the witness-box?" 

" Because I was ushered in the bobedt I edtered the court." 

" I am sorry that this mistake should have occurred," said the pro- 
secutor. "But certainly that gentleman is not the ^vitness whom I 
expected." 

" It's well for that gentlemanj^ said the magistrate, " that he is not. 
As it is, I have a great mind to detain him until he brings forward some 
respectable person — " 

"You will, sir, detain him at your peril!" said the doctor, coming 
forward, with an air of calm dignity, and speaking in tones which com- 
manded attention. " I am his father — ^my name is Delolme ; and if you 
wish to have evidence of my respectability, I can refer you not only to 
some of the first families in the kingdom, but to many of yoiu: own im- 
mediate friends." 

" I r^ret," said the magistrate, whose coimtenance fell the moment 



tMiC SOMNAMBUUflt. iSd 

the doctor mentioned his "immediate friends" — "Ir^et exceedingly 
that so great a mistake should have occurred; but we really have 8o 
many persons here who pretend to be that which they are not, that we 
are compelled to look upon almost all with suspicion/' 

" It may be so," cahnly retorted the doctor; " still the course which 
you have pursued in this case has been, in my judgment, highly in- 
correct." 

" Well," said Tom, " I suppose I bay go?" 

" You may," replied the magistrate. 

" Very good. But before I retire, allow be, as a batter of gratitude, 
to ackdowledge the courtesy with which I have beed received id this 
Suprebe Court of Jollity add Justice." 

The magistrate was silent, and Tom withdrew; and as he did so, he 
was greeted with a buzz of applause, which fell harshly, of course, upon 
the ear of his worship, who, determined on taking his revenge out of some 
one, indignantly commanded the prosecutor to explain. 

"I am really very sorry," said the prosecutor, who was evidently a 
highly respectable man, " but I can give no other explanation than this, 
that that gentleman was sent for by mistake, and placed in the witness- 
box, during my absence from the court." 

" But how came he to be sent for?" 

" I sent for him, because the person who witnessed the robbery gave 
me his address." 

" Well, is that person here?'' 

" I am sorry to say that he is not." 

" Yery well ; then the prisoner must be discharged." 

" You will, I hope, remand him ; and thereby give me some time to 
produce this witness?" 

" I have no evidence before me to justify a remand." 

" You have my evidence, and you have also the evidence of the police- 
man." 

" Don't dictate to me, sir! I say that I have no evidence before me 
to justify me in remanding the prisoner, and that, therefore, he must be 
discharged." 

" Well, but am to be deprived of my property, and assaulted by a 
man, whose character is known to be infamous, without having — ^" 

'•It's your own fault: you have no one to blame but yourself. You 
should have had your witness here I" 

" Well ! if this is the way in which justice is administered, heaven 
protect me from its administration !" 

" Understand that I am invested with authority here, and that I will 
not suffer you, or any other man, to bring that authority into contempt.^' 

" I hold it to be quite imnecessary for me to do so. You bring it 
sufficiently into contempt yourself." 

"Leave the office, sir! If you do not know how to conduct your^ 
self properly, leave the office !" 

" I will do so ; and I hope that while you preside oyer it, I shall never 
have occasion to enter it again." 
* The prisoner, who was a well known member of a numerous and 



18Q STLVMTm BQVm 

highly re^ectable-looking body, ycleped in those days *' the swell mob," 
was tnenmscharged; and as the prosecutor was leaving the office in dis- 
gust, Tom, with a view to the vindication of his own honour, arrested 
his progress. 

" WUl you do be the fiivour," said he, " to exylaid to be how this 
stradge bistake oociured? By object id requostidg this favour is to 
satisfy by goverdor that I ab dot the bad." 

"iti any case you are entitled to an explanation," said the prosecutor, 
" after having been put to so much trouble and annoyance," 

" Oh, I dod't care a straw about that. I'b odly adxious to rebove 
whatever doubt bay exist id by goverdor's bide, about by beidg out at 
that tibe id the bordidg." 

" Well, then, about three o'clock, as I was returning fix)m a party, I 
was accosted by the fellow whom this Midas has discharged, and, as I 
conceived him to be a respectable man, we walked on together for some 
considerable distance, when suddenly he gave me a blow wbi<^ nearly 
stunned me^ drew my watch from my pocket in an instant, and made 
off. At this time a youn^ gentleman was walking behind us, and wit^ 
nessed the whole transaction. I did not, however, stop to speak to him 
then, but pursued the scoundrel, who waa eventually secured, find, while 
the policeman held him, I returned to this gentleman, and begged of 
him to accompany me to the station* This, he said, would put him to 
great inconvenience, but he assured me that he should be most h#ppy 
to appear and give evidence at the police-office, when called upon to do 
so. Being satisfied with this assurance, and knowing that my evidence 
alone, without even that of the policeman, would be sufficient to cause 
the prisoner to be detained, I did not press him to accompany me then, 
but took his address, which he readily gave me, and it certainly is my 
impression that he told me that he was the son, or the nephew, of Dr. 
Delolme, I was, of course, somewhat excited at the time, and being so, 
I may have misunderstood him : indeed, I now feel that I must have 
misunderstood him; but certain am I that, in some way, either directly 
or indirectly, be mentioned the name of Dr. D^lme* He might have 
said that he was known to Dr. Delolme, or that he was in some W»y 
connected with Dr. Delolme, but be certainly mentioned the name of 
Dr* Delolme, for the moment I heard that name mentioned, I ww 
satisfied." 

" Might he not," said the doctor, " have been, as the magistirate »»g- 
gested to us, one of the associates of this man?" 

'^ I do not believe that he was. I cannot believe it. He was a young 
mian, upon whom I fancied, at the time, I might with safety pl»oe the 
utmost reliance. I vmy have been deceived ; it is possible ; but oertainly 
my impression is that be knew no more of the fellow than I did. And 
now," added the prosecutor, turning to Tom, " having explained bow it 
h^pened that I sent for you this morningi I hope that you will accept 
my apology for — " 

" Dodsedcel'* cried Tom; " dod't bedtiod itl I'b odly sorry that the 
fellow was dot pudished. You have dot recov^ied yoUT waitcbf I $IIPPP^^ 

^'Obty^sll&undjttbisnmiu^ oi w^^^^ too^es: 



THS SOMNAlfBPXJgT. 191 

but, as a watcb, it's valueless. This is it! broken all to pieces you 
see : I saw him throw it away just before be was secured." 

"Well," said Tom, ** although the gold is odly worth its weight, Tb 
very glad that he hasd't got it. But did you ever see such a bagistrate?" 

" He's a disgrace to the bench," replied the prosecutor, indignantly; 
" I have heard of him frequently, but with his conduct this morning I 
am perfectly disgusted. That fellow is as well known to him as any 
pickpocket in London, and yet, because his dignity was wounded by 
the calm and correct observations of the doctor, he must let him loose 
to prey upon society again, although he had ample evidence upon which 
to commit him. However, the affair is now at an end, and I have but 
to repeat my expressions of regret, that I should have given you both 
so much trouble." 

He then left the office with the doctor and Tom, and having seen 
them into the carriage, was about to take his leave, when a fellow came 
up to the door, and inquired if they would like to have the proceedings 
reported at length. 

" You are a reporter, I presimie?" said the doctor. 

" I am," replied the man. 

" With which of the newspapers are you connected?" 

" Oh, several! But I report specially for the Time^, Standard^ He- 
rald^ and Globe" 

" Well," said the doctor, who was anxious, of course, that Tom should 
not be publicly ridiculed ; " I see no necessity for the publication of that 
nonsense I it had nothing whatever to do witn tlie case." 

" Then you would like to have all that suppressed?" 

" Why, I cannot conceive any sufficient reason for its insertion." 

" I have taken it in full, and the whole of it will be inserted! unless, 
indeed, you wish to have that, or any other particular portion, suppressed," 

" Well, I certainly should like that portion to be left out!" 

" Very well, sir ; then not a single word^ jf it shall appear. You are, 
of course, aware that we are paid by the line? and that, therefore, what- 
ever we suppress is a dead loss to us, unless, indeed, the sum we should 
receive fer its insertion be paid to us for its suppression." 

"I understand," said the doctor; "and it is but correct that you 
should be paid the sum you would have for its insertion, by those who 
wish to have it suppressed. What would be the sum in this case?" 

"I think it would make about sixty lines, and I manifold seven-^that 
is to sayi I send the report to seven papers, each of which pays me 
three-halfpence a line; but a couple of sovereigns will be sufficient: say 
a couple of sovereigns." 

"You must aUow me to settle this," said the prosecutor; "I have 
given you trouble enough : you shall not through me be put to any 
expense." 

"Ibeg pardon," said the doctor, "your lois has been greater than 
mine, But what security have I," he added, turning to tibe reporter, 
" that that which you promise to suppress, will not appear?" 

^'I am well known herf, sir, and I may say, wth pride, that my re- 
putation is without a single stainv I «hall be b«^ ^ refer fW to tbt 



ltP2 inrlTBStBB somro. 

magistrate. He has known me for years. You will, probably, befbfe 
you leave, do me the fiivour to apply to him, iu order — ^*' 

^'Noi** said the doctor, smiling, ''that Tm sure TU not do; but here 
is my card, and if nothing should appear, in either the evening or the 
morning papers, I shall be happy to give you a couple of sovereigns/' 

''Oh! if my honour is doubted, there's an end of the matter ! It is 
not of the slightest importance to me, whether I receive the money of 
you, or the proprietors of the papers, to which I send the report. I am 
always, of course, anxious to oblige ; but it is to me, as you must per- 
ceive, a matter of no moment whatever." 

" Now do let me settle this aflfair?" said the prosecutor. 

"No," returned the doctor, "that, indeed, I will not. You promise," 
he added, addressing the reporter, " that if I give you two sovereigns, not 
a syllable, having reference to my son, shall appear?" 

"Let it all appear," cried Tom; "/ dod't care a buttod about it!" 

"That," resumed the doctor, heedless of Tom's observation, "that is, 
of course, understood." 

"Of course." 

The doctor drew out his purse— gave two sovereigns to the reporter 
—shook hands with the prosecutor, and gave the word, " home." 

" Why, did you give hib that buddy?" cried Tom. " Why didd't you 
give it to be?" 

'*I gave it to him," replied the doctor, "because I had no desire to 
see you ridiculed in the public papers." 

"Ridiculed! Well, that's rich! How could I be ridiculed? The 
bagistrate was the swell, I apprehedd, to be ridiculed. It stikes be, 
that I bade a hit, whed I asked hib if I was id the court of Bobus !" 

"Bobus!" cried the doctor. "Yes, you did make a hit! Do you 
know what produced all that laughter?" 

" Of course. The codsubbate igdoradce of the clerk." 

'*No, Tom: that laughler was produced by yoiu- Bobuses and 
Cobuses." 

"What 'do you bead by Bobuses add Cobuses? I didd't say Bobus ! 
I said Bobus ! Id the produdciatiod Bobus add Bobus, the differedce is 
ibbedse !" 

" I cannot perceive any difference at all." 

"What ! dot betweed Bobus add Bobus?" 

"Bobus is Bobus, and nothing but Bobus." 

" Well, but I didd't say Bobus ! Bobus is a beastly produdciatiod of 
Bobus!" 

" I wish that I could induce you to think so." 

"Well, but do you bead to say that I prodoudce Bobus, Bobus?'* 

"I do." 

" Well, I bust look idto this. I begid to suspect that there bust be 
sobethidg id it. I dod't, of course, wadt to be bade a laughidg-stock of !" 

" But a laughing-stock you ever will be, Tom, until yoiu* absurd 
pronunciation of the m's and the w's be corrected." 

Tom became thoughtful; and, as they were then neai' homC) the 
subject was, for the time being, dropped. 



THE S0KMAUBULI9T. 193 



CHAPTER XXm, 

THE lovers' BETURN. 

Ignorance is universally contemned, and yet ignorance itself is uni- 
versal. There is nothing more fiercely denounced than ignorance : yet, in 
general, they are most ignorant who denounce it most fiercely. All men 
are ignorant : and yet mankind is not a mass of ignorance ; all men have 
knowledge: but man is not omniscient. Ignorance is comparative: 
there is not a man breathing who does not know something of which 
every other man breathing is ignorant. The great art is to conceal our 
ignorance; and this art is highly valuable, seeing that it constitutes the 
germ of knowledge : nay, the man who endeavours to conceal his igno- 
rance, is already in possession of a most important branch of human 
knowledge — ^the knowledge of the ignorance he is anxious to conceal. 
Some men have a talent for the display of their ignorance. Such men 
are ignorant of their ignorance, and are consequently much to be pitied. 
To be ignorant of one's own ignorance is to be in the most profound 
state of ignorance in which a man can be involved. The common 
answer, " I don't know," is candid, but it is at the same time a very 
palpable manifestation of ignorance — ^and yet where is the man who 
knows everything? There is not such a man upon earth. The lowest 
species of ignorance is that which prompts a man to think that he knows 
everything: and the highest caste of knowledge is that which makes 
him feel that in reality he knows only this — ^that he knows nothing. 
There are, however, men who are expected to know everything ; but of 
this expectation disappointment must always be the fruit. Take our 
greatest men — ^men of the mightiest mind!s — ^men most highly distin- 
guished for wisdom — ^how ignorant they are of those common things 
with which common men are conversant. A journeyman barber would 
curl his lip and look with feelings of contempt upon a head of hair cut 
by an astronomer: his exclamation doubtless would be, "He must he a 
hignoramus as cut this ear air!" Nor is it unworthy of belief that 
there is not one statesman in a thousand, either native or foreign, who 
knows how to cut out a pair of short gaiters. Place Wellington and 
Napier in the kitchen, and Gunter and Ude in the field, and what con- 
summate ignorance would be displayed by them all ! But this term 
ignorance is applied with more indiscrimination than any other. A is 
said to be ignorant by B, because he happens not to know that which 
B knows, albeit he knows that of which B himself is ignorant. Tom 
thought the clerk at tJie police-office ignorant, because he professed not 
to know exactly how to spell "bed'cide;" he thought the magistrate 
ignorant; he thought the officers ignorant; indeed, the only man in 



1S4 tTLYXSTlS SOUKD 

court wHom he imagined to be wise was the doctor; and yet the doctor, 
as will be seen, was, as far as the practices of penny-a-liners are con- 
cerned, one of the most ignorant men there! 

It will be in all probability remembered that he gave one of these 
genuine " gentlemen of the press" two sovereigns for the suppression of 
Tom's evidence. Well! the doctor of course thought that it would be 
suppressed, and so did Tom; although he felt at the time, and strongly 
too, that those two sovereigns would have paid for a box of cigars, and 
innumerable pots of porter. The Standard, however, was no sooner in, 
than Tom saw the whole proceedings reported at length ; and, with feel- 
ings of deep indignation, perceived that he, and he only, was ridiculed! 

" A dice bad," said he, confidentially — " a very dice bad. I bust 
bare adother idterview with you, by friedd — ^I bust, id fact, have that 
hodour id a very short tibe." 

Having expressed that which he felt in these cabalistic terms, he rang 
ih% bell, and when James appeared, he said, with an air of mystery, 
*' Jib, rud for the evedidg papers." 

" The evening paper's in, sir," replied James promptly. 

" What do you bead? Do you thidk Tb such a codsubbate ass as 
dot to kdow ^at the paper's id, whed I hold it id by hadd? I wadt 
tiu others— the Olobej the St*d, add the Moody if there be a MoodP' 

** I fthall have to go out with the carriage, sir, directly: the ladies ar« 
<lr«ssing for dinner." 

<* Dab the didder, Jib! Rud for the papers — bridg be the lot as feood 
il possible!'* 

James accordingly went for " the lot," and Tom again read the report 
in the Standard* He had previously conceived an idea that there must 
in reality be something peculiar in his style of pronimciation; but he 
bad never before imagined that that peculiarity would appear so ridicu- 
lous in print. He read it aloud again and again, but as he pronounced 
his m's and his n% he was really unable to detect anything wrong. Th^ 
lubstituted b's and ds looked absurd enough, but in his ear they sounded 
all right. 

" Bobus," said he—" Bobus. Well, that's correct! Bobus— dothidg 
oad be bore distidct thad Bobus ! Add bed'cide. Well, bed'cide: what 
«ad posttbly be plaider thad bed'cide? I wod't have it!" he exclaimed; 
<' it's a regular codspiracy — a dead take id!" And jufet as he had arrived 
at this ecmolusion, James returned with the Ohhe and the Sun, 

" WeU, Jib," he cried, " got 'eb?" 

" Yes, sir. There are only two, sit, besides the one you have." 

" Very well. Two are two too many. That'll do. Jib— that'll do." 

James then 1^ the room, and Tom very soon found that the report! 
in these papers were literally the same. 

" Very good. Bister Reporter," said he, sarcastically. " Very good. 
Ititfikes be I shall serve you out to-borrow! I dod't kdow exactly, add 
th^t^fore I cad't say: but if I dod't get that buddy back, I'll do byself 
the pleasure of takidg it out. Fll see you to-bcMTow bordidg, you lite- 
wy Wretch ! Here you are," he added, as the doctor entered the 
Ul>rai7— « here's the full chadge for your two sovweigds. All idl" 



THE S03INA1IBULIST. 195 

"Indeed!" 

" Eveiy word of it." 

" Very dishonourable : very." 

"Add yet the fellow didd't like to have his hodour doubted! Why 
didd't you give he the buddy?" 

The doctor very gravely commenced reading the report, but as he 
proceeded, his features relaxed, for the thing had been well done, and 
•VMypoint told. 

" Well," said Tom, when the doctor had finished, " what do you thidk 
ofitdow?" 

" Why I think it most dishonest on the part of the reporter, but as I 
feel that this report will induce you to correct your defective pronun- 
ciation, I am not very sorry to see it in." 

" Well, but do you bead to say, dow, seriously, that I prodoudce by 
ehs add eda id that ridiculous fashiod?" 

"I do." 

" Add are the ebs add the eds the odly letters which I prodoudce id- 
correctly?" 

"Your pronimciation, Tom, of every other letter in the alpha- 
bet is perfect. The substitution of the b and the d for the m and the 
n, alone renders your conversation comical, or, as you would say, 
eohicaV* 

" Well! ril certaidly see idto it. If this be the case, I'll sood get over 
those two fellows." 

" I hope you now see the necessity for doing so. Your professional 
success, Tom, as I have before frequently explained to you, depends in 
a great measure upon that." 

" Oh ! I'll get over it. I'll sood badage it. But what are you goidg 
to do with that fellow?" 

"The reporter?" 

"Yes: of course you'll debadd the buddy back?" 

"Not II If I were to see him, I should certainly expostulate with 
him, for such practices are highly dishonourable ; but I shall take no 
trouble about the matter." 

"/ bay get it, I suppose, if I cad?" 

"If you can, Tom, you may!" replied the doctor, with a smile. "But 
I have an impression that you will find that there is, in that quarter, ' no 
money returned.' " 

The impression on Tom's mind was of a difierent character, but he 
thought it inexpedient to explain how he intended to proceed: he, there- 
fore, allowed that subject to drop ; but, being anxious to have a point of 
far more importance settled, he said, with a countenance which denoted 
that anxiety, "Add dow let be ask you wud serious questiod. We all 
dide together at Scholefield's to-day. Very well. Dow I shall feel of 
course buch bore cobfortable if you tell be that you are satisfied, per- 
fectly satisfied, that I was dot out of the house frob the tibe I lefb the 
drawidg-roob last dight till we left id the carriage together this mord- 
idg. Are you or are you dot satisfied of this?" 

"I am satisfied now, Tom — ^perfectly satisfied--that you axe not the 

p2 



196 SYLVESTER SOUND 

person who witnessed the robbery; but the door, Tom — the fact of the 
door being found open — ^that's the point!" 

" Yes. But that poidt is berelv assubed. I dod't believe a word of 
it! I dod't believe the door was foudd oped at all !" 

"/feel justified in believing that it was; and if it were, the question 
is, who could have left it open if you did not? It surely could not have 
been Sylvester?" 

"Syl! Doe: Fll adswer for hib with by life. I saw hib idto his 
roob ; add I kdow he wedt to bed : I also kdow that if he had gode dowd 
stairs after that, I bust have heard hib. Besides, he isd't at all the style 
of fellow to do it!" 

"Well, all I can say is, that it's a mystery, which time may perhaps 
unravel." 

"But look here, father! Dod't believe that I ever have told, or that 
I ever will tell you a falsehood. Dod't believe it !" 

" Well, Tom, I am not at all anxious to believe it. I certainly can- 
not prove that you ever told me a falsehood, but you are awai*e that 
these circumstances are fraught with suspicion." 

"Exactly! That's the poidt! That is the very thidg which galls 
be! But we shall fidd it out by-add-bye." 

"And, until we do find it out, Tom, I am perfectly willing to be 
silent on the subject." 

Mrs. Delolme and Aunt Eleanor then entered the library, and shortly 
afterwards they, with the doctor and Tom, repaired to the house of Mr. 
Scholefield. Here they met the reverend gentleman, by appointment; 
and here Aunt Eleanor was delighted to find that Sylvester already felt 
perfectly at home. Of Mrs. Scholefield, he had at once become a 
favourite ; she treated him, in fact, "with as much kindness as if he had 
been her own son ; and as she was in reality a most amiable person, 
Aimt Eleanor, feeling satisfied that everything would be done to pro- 
mote his happiness, decided on returning to Cotherstone on the morrow. 

Accordingly, in the morning, she and the reverend gentleman, accom- 
panied by Mrs. Delolme, Mrs. Scholefield, Sylvester, and Tom, went to 
the office at Charing-cross, and when she had had some farther private 
conversation with Mrs. Scholefield, having reference to Sylvester, she 
left town perfectly happy in the conviction that the utmost possible care 
would be taken of both his morals and his health. 

Immediately after the coach had started, Tom proceeded to Bow- 
street alone; and, on entering the office, looked round with an anxious 
hope of again seeing that literary gentleman who received the two 
sovereigns of the doctor. That gentleman, however, was not then there ; 
but, conceiving that he might be there anon, Tom waited two hours for 
him with exemplary patience, and then spoke to one of the officers of 
the court. 

" I ab adxious," he observed, " to see a reporter." 

"There they are," returned the officer, "in that there box." 

**Are they reporters?" 

"AU on 'em." 

"But I wadt to see the wud whob I saw here yesterday." 




/V// ^ /^ .if'/r ', '/^ 



/; // W^//^V 



em. 



\ 



4 



THE SOMNAMBULIST. 197 

"All them was here yesterday." 

" But there was wud here yesterday, who is dot here dow?" 

" With aU my heart!" 

"Very good. But perhaps you cad tell be where to fidd hib?" 

"Don't bother. How should I know where to find him?" 

"Do you thidk it likely that they cad tell be?" 

I'Ax." 

"Why, you surly, low bred, ill codditioded— " 

" Silence ! or I puts you out of the office I'* 

Tom looked at him contemptuously from head to foot and up again, 
and said something about his being a nice man he didnH think ; but, as 
one of the reporters at the moment left the box, Tom turned from the 
fellow to address him. 

"A reporter," said he, "was here yesterday whob I dod't see id the 
office to-day. Cad you tell be where to fidd hib?" 

"What paper is he connected with?" 

" He reports for seved papers, he told us." 

" Seven! You are the gentleman, I believe, who was yesterday in the 
witness-box?" 

"lab." 

"I thought so. But there was no person connected with seven papers 
here!" 

"He certaidly told us seved." 

" What was his object in speaking to you on the subject?" 

" Why, he cabe to the carriage-door to idquire if we were adxious to 
have ady portiod of the report suppressed, add as by goverdor thought 
that that dodsedce bight as well be left out, the fellow offered to suppress 
it for two sovereigds*" 

" But of course you didn't give him the t>vo sovereigns?" 

" The goverdor did ! He gave hib two sovereigds to leave out Ae 
lot, add ^ed the wretch put it all id 1" 

" I see," said the reporter, smiling. " But he had nothing whatever 
to do with it. He is not a regular reporter: he is one of those scamps 
who attend inquests and poHce-courts, expressly in order to obtain 
money by pretending to have the power to insert or to suppress what 
they please." 

" The adibal !" cried Tom. " I should like to see hib dow !" 

"I wish you could point him out to me. Td have him before the 
magistrate at once. But he'll not be here to-day: you may depend 
upon that. Perhaps in a week, when he imagines that you have given 
him up, he may be here again." 

" Thed rU look id about this day week, add if I should see hib—" 

" Point him out to me." 

Tom promised that he would do so, and left the office ; and, on reach- 
ing home, proceeded to explain to the doctor how completely he had 
been victimised. 

" IVe beed to^Bow-street this bordidg," said he, " to look after that 
literary swell." 

"And have you seen him?" inquired the doctor. 



IM tTLTUmB sotTm 

" Dot a bit of it. He's idvisible. But I suppoae that you art quite 
prepared to hear of its beidg a dead doT^ 

"Quite, Tom. Oh, yes: Tin quite prepared for that*^ 

"Well, thed it wod't take you buch by surprise. But of all the 
swiddles that ever succeeded, that was wud of the host perfect. Why, 
he's dot edgaged to report for ady paper at all! He is a fellow who 
frequedts the various courts, expressly id order to pick up the Greeds." 

" Then, I suppose, Tom, there isn't much chance of your making two 
sovereigns by this transaction?" 

"Dot a bit of it r 

"Well: it's a lamentable circumstance, Tom, isn't it? You see it's 
a dead loss to you of forty shillings." 

" But, however you could have beed taked id by a dodge so disgust- 
idgly stale, I cad't ibagide." 

"Stale!" exclaimed the doctor. "It was quite fresh to me, Tom. 
Did you ever hear of it before?" 

"1 1 I'b a youdg udl I cad't be expected to kdow so buch as you. 
Besides, Fb a victib, add always was ! I dever thought that you eorild 
be victibised!" 

"All men are liable to be taken in occasionaUy, and when they are, 
Tom, the best plan is to say as little about it as possible." 

"Doe doubt I But I shall say a little bore about this, if I should 
happed to beet that youdg gedtlebad!" 

"Persuade him to return the two sovereigns, Tom." 

"I dod't expect to be able to do that, but it strikes be I shall cause 
hib to wish that he had dever had theb!" 

The doctor smiled and left the room ; when Tom — who had done bul 
very little work that week — ^resolved on bringing his mind to bear again 
upon his books, and with that view went up at once into his study. 

Meanwhile, Aunt Eleanor and her reverend friend were enjoying 
their journey to Cotherstone Grange. It was, fortimately, a most beauti« 
ful day: there were, moreover, no other inside passengers — a circum- 
stance which they privately deemed still more fortimate — ^but if even it 
had been wet, and the coach had been crowded, they would have be^i, 
in each other's society, happy. The journey never before appeared to 
be half so short to either. They were amazed at the rapidity with 
which they went along. They reached village after village, and town 
after town, as if the distance between had been scarcely a mile. The 
stages too appeared to be remarkably short. The horses seemed to fly 
from stage to stage — ^while Time kept pace with the horses. The 
reverend gentleman was never before known to have half so much to say. 
He had an astonishing flow of language on that occasion: in fact, he kept 
on continually talking from the time they left London till they reached 
the point at which he had directed his phaeton to be in readiness, and 
even then he appeared to have just as much to communicate as ever. 

As they approached the Grange, new beauties seemed to have sprung 
up during their absence, and they felt more endeared to the place than 
before; and as they passed through the village they chatted so gaily, 
and seemed so mudi pleased with themselves voA eadh other, and vrery* 



THE BOWXAWKUtSWr. IH 

thing Around them, that Obadiab Drant, who wai staadiBg with ?oI^«y 
at the door of the Crumpet and Crown, so rolled hii mjit^rioua-loQkjm 
head, and so tortured and twisted his inelegant body, that his frkoa 
began to think that he had had for dinner something whidi didn't agl«« 
witii him. 

" What's the matter?" inquired Pokey. " Have you got the stomaob'* 
ache?" 

^' The stomach-ache!'' exclaimed Obadiah. '< Isn't it enough to givf 
any man the stomach-ache?" That's the dodge, is it?" he addedi sar« 
castically. " Very good: that's it." 

" What's it?" demanded Pokey. 

" What's it I What ! Don't your ideas fructify?" 

"What do you mean?" 

" What do I mean? There! That any man in the nineteenth evit»Xf 
should be able to see the world wag as it does, without having any ideal 
fructification! Pokey! you're a flat. Youd never do to sit in tbf 
House of Conunons! Even Bobby Peel would beat you! Why,^ust 
look you here: didn't you see Teddy pass just now vriUi the old maid?** 

"Yes. Well?" 

"WeU! Don't you see?" 

" See what?" 

"Why, the dodge!" 

"What dodge?" 

What dodge! Pokey, you were never boi^n to be the Lord ChaneelloiF* 
Amalgamate your ideas, man. Let 'em flow and fructify! What! 
WeU, as true as I'm alive! — Why, just look you here: Do you mean tO 
tell me — a man of your scope, and sense, and fruetifertiUty-— do yoa 
mean to tell me, point blank, vrithout any reservation of ideas, that you 
don't see as clear as mud what Ted's been up to?" 

" Can you?" 

" Can I! Who can*t! It's as plain as the sun at twelve e^doolu 
Look you here: when Harnr the Eighth married Nell Gwynae, did thq[ 
marry in public? No! 2ney married privately. iVeto don^t you satF 

" I can't say as I do," replied Pokey. 

" You can*t ! Well, I never see such a job in my life. What ! OsmH 
you see there's been a private marriage here?" 

"No, I'm blest if I can." 

" Pokey, you ought to go to school again, and have them ideas el 
yours put under a course of fructification. Not see it! Send I may /um, 
if I ever see such a job before ! Where are your eyes? what's beeomf 
of your notions? are all your ideas asLeep or what, that you can't maka 
nothing out of this?" 

" Well, what do you make of it?" 

" What do I make of it! Just look you here. Hasn't the old mai4 
been up to London, and didn't Ted follow her, and haven't they btea 
there aU this time, and now haven't they come back together?" 

"WeU! and what of that?" 

" What of it! Have you Hved aU these years in the wcnrld and ean't 
see what they've been up tol They couldn't marry here. OhI dear 



200 STLTBSnS flOUHD 

tDBf no: they must go np to London, and be married by special Ikenae! 
This is your aristocracy of hmnility! tiiis is yonr panonic pride! Mark 
my words, Pokey, that pride must come down. Wt^re not going to let 
it much longer nde rongh-shod over the eternal principles of the people. 
We must tear from their eyes what I call the fOm of folly. We must 
make them nnderstand these amalgamating dodges. We most do as 
they did in France under Peter the Great, when Robespierre towelled 
the Dntch, we most give the aristocracy a blessed good welting. That 
11 bring 'em to their senses ; and mind you this, th^Tl never be happy 
till they get it. We must have a revolution all over the world; ihu^ 
are now on a rotten foundation: your kings, and your queens, and your 
bishops, and parsons, and all the lot of aristocratic leeches, who suck the 
best blood of the eternal people, must be swamped; they must be swept 
clean away from the face of the earth, as they were in the time of the 
Romans. What do we want with an amalgamating mass of corruption 
fructifying upon our very vitals? Why should we give eighty millions 
a-year away for nothing? What good do the aristocracy do us? If 
you can't pay yoiu- taxes, away go your sticks; and what for? Why,' 
to &tten up your flaming aristocracy. Do you mean to call that eternal 
justice? Do you mean to call that the glorious principles of ever- 
lasting liberty? What did we sign the Magna Charta for? Why, 
for fructifying freedom. If we had no aristocracy, we should have 
no taxes; and if we had no taxes, we should be free. I'll take 
you then upon your Magna Charta, and show that you are nothing 
but slaves. Would the Russians stand it, think you? Would the 
Chinamen stand it? No! The Jews wouldn't stand it under Moses. 
Look at the history of the [world, and you'll find that nobody stands 
it but us. When Solomon built his temple among the gods, the 
Solomonians wouldn't stand it; they said point blank, *Here you've 
got about a thousand wives, of one sort or other, and when we 
come to look at the mobs of kids, we are not going to support so expen- 
sive an establishment.' Even the very workmen struck ! and we must 
strike, and when we do strike, the blow will be a stunner. It's of no 
use half doing the thing : we'll go in like rattle-snakes, my boy, as they 
did at Nova Scotia. We'll let them see what we're made of! we'll show 
'em from which point of the compass the wind blows : we'll go in a 
burster ; and when we do, the lesson shall last 'em their lives. We'll 
not much longer be plundered in this way : we'll not be ground down to 
the earth, and have our substance squeezed out of us thus, by the iron 
hand of an iron-hearted aristocracy. Not a bit of it! What did Johnny 
Russell say in the house the other night? * I tell the noble lord,' said 
he ; and Johnny can speak up sometimes if he likes — ^ I tell the noble 
lord that he'd better look out. There's a spirit abroad that won't have 
it. It's fructifying now, and will soon break loose; and when it does, 
there'll be pepper.' And so there will: mind you that. Down with 
them! — ^that's my sentiments— down to the dust! A rattler, my Briton— 
a rattler for me. Now, just look you here— — '* 

" Well, but what are you talking about?" inqtdred Pokey. 

" What am I talking about?" 



THE SOMNAMBULIST. 201. 

" Aye ! What has all this about Peter the Great, Solomon, Moses, 
and Magna Charta, to do with our parson? What have the Russians to 
do with him, or the Frenchmen, or the Chinamen?" 

" What are you so thickheaded, so pugnaciously stupid, as not to see 
that all this tends to show you the system?" 

" What system?" 

" What system ! Why the system of extortion— the system of plunder 
—the fructifying system of downright dead robbery, which grinds the 
people's vitals into dust." 

" But we wasn't a-talking about nothing of the sort. We was talking 
about a private marriage." 

" Well, I know it. But can't you make your ideas fructify beyond 
one point of the compass? I know we were talking about Teddy Rouse 
being privately married in London; and just look you here ^" 

" Well, but what makes you think so?" 

"What makes me think so? Why, can there exist two opinions 
about it? Didn't she sneak off to London ; and didn't he go sneaking 
after her? Why didn't he take her up with him, like a man? They 
have come back together because it's all over; but why not do things in 
a straightforward way? It's disgusting to see a man like him — a man, 
paid as he is for teaching simplicity — go dodging about in that manner." 

" But this is all guess-work, you know." 

" Guess-work ! Pokey, Pokey, when shall I get you to fructify your 
ideas a little?" 

" Yours, I think fructify a little too much. You said when he went 
up, that he was going after his French girl, there — ^what's her name- 
Rosalie!" 

" I know I did; and what does it prove? Why, that he'll run after 
every one he takes a fancy to. Depend upon it, Ted*s not particular. 
None of them are. No one expects it in a parson. They're a clerical 
lot; and you know what I mean by the term clerical. I say, Quocks," 
he added, as that gentleman joined them, " did you see Teddy Rouse and 
his woman come in?" 

" Teddy Rouse and his woman .^" said Quocks. " What do you mean? 
I saw him set down Mrs. Sound at the cottage." 

" He didn't take her then to the parsonage-house?" observed Pokey. 

" The parsonage? No. Who said he did?" 

"Drant says they're married!" 

" Married ! Rubbish. It isn't Hkely 1" 

" Why not?" demanded Obadiah. 

"Why not! Do you think he'd have taken her to the cottage, and 
shaken hands, and left her there, and then driven home by himself if 
they'd been married?" 

"Well, I was only taking a charitable view of the thing; because if 
they're not married they ought to be, that's all about it." 

" What do you riiean? I shouldn't mind well thrashing any man who 
says there's anything a mite wrong about Mrs. Sound. She's as straight as 
an arrow. Til warrant! — aright up and down, and no nonsense— not a mite.'* 

" You know she's been to London?" 



2Qt ffLTlSTUI iouim 

"I do: what of that?" 

" You know he's been to London, too?*' 

" Yes, and what of tliat?" 

'< Well ! Look you here : I only know it doeinH; look well.** 

« What doesn't look weU?" 

" Why, it doesn't look well for Ted to run after her, and then to \mag 
h«r back with him ; now, does it?'* 

" Why not?** 

" Why not! Why, it looks as if there must be something in it.** 

"In what?" 

" Why, as Harry the Eighth said, just after the French Revolution, 
* rU teU you what it is,* said he, * if—' *' 

" Never mind what Harry the Eighth said! I want to hear what you 
say.'* 

" Well, but this is a case in point. * If,* said he, * honourable gentle- 
men think that Fm to be done in this way, I must fructify their intellects 
aUtde.*** 

"Never mind fructifying!— give me a plain answer to a plain ques-* 
tion-*' 

" He never did such a thing in his life!** observed Pokey. 

"Pokey,** said Obadiab, gravely; " what would you have beoQ tf il 
hadn't been for me?" 

" What do you mtpan?** demanded Pokey, indignantly, for he ftlt that 
he was quite as good a man as Obadiah, who never in his lifb had two* 
pence that could be said to be his own; " what should I have been if it 
nadn't been for you?** 

"Aye! what would you have been if it hadn't been for me? Look 
you here, now; I'll tell you: you'd have been like one of the rattle- 
snakes in the wilderness; you wouldn't have had a fructifying idea 
about you.*' 

" Well," said Quocks, " but what have you to say against the cha* 
racterofMrs. Sound?" 

" What have I to say against her character?" 

" Aye! You said just now that it didn't look well^that there must 
be something in it, and that if she were not married, she ought to.be. 
Now, I just want to know what you mean by all this?" 

" You do, do you? WeU, then, just look you here: when I said that 
if she and Teddy Rouse were not married, they ought to be, I meant 
what I said, and do you mean to say they ought not?** 

" But what did you mean to insinuate?'* 

" What did I mean to insinuate? Why, of course, that they ought 
to be married.'* 

"And why?" 

" Why! YHien Peter the Great fructified the Greeks—" 

"Never mind Peter the Great: the question is, why ought they to be 
married?" 

" I was going to tell you. Peter — " 

" I wont have it. Answer my question.** 

"* Answer my question.* Are you one ofthti ragged aristocracy t Do 



i 



*■: 



^ 



THB 10MNAMBI7LIST. 30S 

you want to come Billy the Conqueror over us? * Answer my question.* 
A fructifying tyrant could say no more to his slave. I*m the slave of no 
man: not a farthing's-worth of it. Come to fair argument, and I am 
your man. Til go mth you into the history of the world ; but if you 
want to come any of your haughty aristocracy, it won^t do for me, mind 
you that." 

^' Obadiah," said Quocks, " you^re a fool. I don't flatter you when I 
say that you're only one remove from an idiot; because I'd much rather 
talk with an idiot than with you. Independently of which, an idiot«<Hi 
perfect idiot — ^is infinitely more harmless. You take delight in stabbing 
the reputation of those aroimd you: you glory in the practice of found- 
ing falsehoods upon truth : you are too vain to see that you are despised, 
and too ignorant even to know that you are ignorant: you are one of 
society's butts — ^a creature who has not a single friend in the world, for 
what man in the world can feel justified in either opening his heart to 
you, or trusting you with a secret? — ^you are a dangerous man, Obadiah 
—dangerous not because you have any high intellectual power, but 
because you are utterly destitute of it. I don't mean to say that you 
are malignant. No: you are ten times worse than a man who is actu- 
ated by malignity: you have not the tact to perceive what is calculated 
to injure a man, and what is not. You lose friends, Oba<Hah, as fast as 
you make them, because they soon find that you are not to be trusted.** 

" Well," said Obadiah, " you have been fructifying, certainly, to an 
amalgamating extent. Have you done?" 

" Quite. My object is merely to induce you to study your own cha- 
racter." 

" Thank you: you're very kind, you always were; but I know my 
own character as well as any man in Europe, Asia, Africa, or America.** 

" I am very sorry for it." 

"No doubt. But just look you here: just allow me, if you've done 
now, to ask you one question. You said just now that I take a delight 
in stabbing the reputation of those around me. Mark you that!— 'thoM 
were the very vforda you put in juxtaposition." 

"Well." 

" Well, just look you here, now; whose reputation have I ever endea* 
voured to stab?" 

" Whose reputation have you not f That's the exception, if there be 
one: the other's the rule." 

" Well, but whose reputation have I been endeavouring to stab now?** 

" That of a lady, whose goodness is known and appreciated by all but 
you, and that of a gentleman — for he t5 a gentleman-— whose honour 
and benevolence none but you ever doubted." 

"I deny it!" 

" Deny what?" 

" Deny what? Deny that I've been endeavouring-—** 

" Oh!" exclaimed Pokey, with uplifted hands; " OhI** 

" Oh! you fool: what do you mean by ohf^ 

** Didn't you walk in before Quocks came!" 

'(Butlmapeakingofnowl It has b^en said that— when I nada tlM 



204 0TLVSSTER SOUmo 

observation, that if they were not married they ought to be — ^I endea- 
voured to stab their reputation. Now, Til prove tha^ I endeavoured to 
do nothing of the sort." 

« Do so." 

" I'll prove it by logic, and I defy all the mathematicians in the habit- 
able globe to knock it down. Til prove it by the regular mathematical 
construction of the English language, and will any man tell me there*s 
any constructed language in the universe more mathematically regular 
than that? Til prove it in juxtaposition — " 

"Well, prove it." 

" Prove itl Well, just look you here, and if your ideas can fructify, 
let 'em. Just look at the granunatical character of the words : if they 
are not married, they ought to be. Isn't that a correct amalgamation? 
-—and being amalgamated, what do the words mean? Is there any man 
in nature so lost to eveiy sense of grammatical transubst-^tiation as not 
to see that they mean this, and nothing but this, that they ought to be 
married, if they are not?" 

" But why ought they?" 

" Why ought they? Isn't one a bachelor, and the other a spinster? 
And is there any law in life to prohibit such a marriage? What would 
be said if Johnny Russell, or Bobby Peel, were to bring in a bill to 
reiider marriages of that sort illegal? Wouldn't it be kicked out of the 
House neck and crop? I said they ought to be married; and I say so 
still. I'll not flinch from what I said. I'm not ashamed of what I say. 
I'd say it just as soon before their faces, as I would behind their backs. 
They ought to be married, and what objection can we have to such a 
marriage, if they like it? For my part, I think that they'd just suit 
each other." 

" Ah!" exclaimed Pokey; " it won't do, you know. That's not what 
you meant." 

" What do you mean by saying that's not what I meant? Can you 
tell the fructifications of my bosom? Can any man alive dive into ano* 
ther's heart, or see what's going on in another's private brain? It will 
take a wiser man than you, Pokey, to do it. I refer you to the words — 
if the words don't mean that, they mean nothing!" 

" You shuffles," said Pokey. 

" He always did shuffle," said Quocks. 

" Shuffle!" exclaimed Obadiah, who was perfectly disgusted with 
Pokey's ingratitude. " You'd have shuffled through the world an igno- 
ramus, if your weak ideas hadn't been fructified by me. What do you 
mean by shuffling?" 

" Why you've shuffled in this!" returned Pokey, who wasn't aware 
that Obadiah had done anything to his ideas, with the exception of con- 
fusing them occasionally. " I don't care a button about the words, I 
look at what you meant, and you meant this — " 

" We know what he meant very well," observed Quocks; "and I'd 
strongly recommend him, if his ideas must * fructify' on matters of this 
character, to keep the * fructification' to himself. It may be true that 
his slanders are not of much importance, because no one who knows him 



THE SOMNAMBULIST. 205 

believes a word he utters. Were he a man with any pretensions to re- 
spectability, the consequences might be serious as well to others as to 
himself; but he is not: he is at best but a half-witted butt, without a 
particle of manly pride about him." 

" You're going it!" exclaimed Obadiah. "Now I dare say you think 
that I care a great deal about what you say, don't you?" 

"If I thought that, I would, both for your own sake and that of 
society, say more: I would then take some pains to show you exactly 
what you are; but I know that you dojiH care — ^that you haven't the 
sense to care: if you had, you would scorn to go prowling about as you 
do— picking up loose scraps of slander to * fructify ;* chuckling over the 
misfortunes of your neighbours ; magnifying their follies, and making 
those follies the bases of lies. I really don't know a more contemptible 
character than that of a lazy—" 

" Do you mean to say that I*m lazy?" 

" Lazy 1 Why, what do you do besides lounging about barber's shops? 
You don't do twenty -four hours work in a week. I have nothing, of 
coiu'se, to do with that; but when a man has a family, and squanders 
away, newsmongering, three-fourths of his time, when that time might 
be occupied in benefiting his family, what is he but a lazy man? I should 
be ashamed to lead such a life." 

" Oh! don't you trouble your head about me." 

" I don\ want to trouble my head about you. I only want to show 
how much better it would be if you were not to trouble your head — 
such a head as it is — ^about others. Not that I imagine that I shall be 
able, by showing this, to do you any good — ^you're past that; you must 
talk, and I'm not at all siu^rised at your talking ; all that I'm surprised 
at is, that you should still find people to listen to your talk. You have 
pretty nearly tired all the old ones out : Pokey, I believe, is the only one 
of the lot that will listen to you now, and the sooner he sends you to 
Coventry, the better." 

" Let him do it!" exclaimed Obadiah. " What do I care for Pokey? 
Who's Pokey placed in juxtaposition with me?" 

Pokey, who didn't at all like this contemptuous observation, drank 
up his beer and departed ; and as Quocks, who had already finished his, 
went with him, Obadiah was left there to " fructify" alone. 



CHAPTER XXIV. 

LOVE. 



DuBiNG Sylvester's residence with Mr. Scholefield, his career as a 
somnambidist was checked, and as his history as a somnambulist is all 
that we have to contemplate, it will be necessary to leap over a space of 
five years, with a brief explanation of the means which induced the de-^ 



SM 8TLT18TER SOUVD 

▼elopment of his somnambalism to cease, and a description, somewHat 
less brief, of an incident for which, perhaps, many will be quite unpre- 
pared. 

And first with respect to the means by which his career as a somnam- 
bulist was checked. It has been seen that Mr. Scholefield was an ab- 
stemious man : it has been stated that when he dined at the doctor's, he 
neither ate nor drank anything calculated to heat the blood or to pro- 
duce any unnatural excitement; it will, therefore, be sufficient to add 
•imply, &at his arguments in favour of that practice were so strong and 
to convincing, that Sylvester adopted it at once; and having done so, ha 
Alt throughout the day so much lighter and more lively, that he adhered 
to it duri^ the whole of the time he resided in Mr. Scholefield's house. 
It will, however, here be correct to observe that his adherence to this 
system must not be ascribed to any consciousness on his part of the 
cause of his having previously felt so languid— he had not even the 
most remote idea of the fact of his physical energies having been during 
the night exhausted: he attributed his gaiety and lightness of heart 
solely to the regimen he had adopted, and hence he continued to adhere 
to it firmly. 

Now it happened that when Sylvester had been articled about twelve 
months, Mr. Scholefield was summoned to attend a female who was re- 
ported to be in the very last stage of consumption. He accordingly 
went, and was shown into a plain but clean and neatly-furnished room, 
in which he found a poor wasted, yet beautiful girl on a bed, near which 
her broken-hearted mother sat weeping. 

The old lad}' rose as he entered, and tried to conceal her tears, but 
M the effort deprived her of the power to speak, he pressed her hand in 
silence, and went to the bedside. 

"My poor girl," said he, with a benevolent smile, on taking her 
hands, which were like gloved bones, "why, your eyes are bright! — 
and sparkling! — ^you must not be in this state long." 

"I feel," she observed faintly — ^**I feel that I should be tuellj if I 
were not so weak. I have no pain— hio absolute physical pain — and yet 
I am prostrated thus!" 

" Well, well," said he, soothingly, as a deep sigh escaped her, " you 
must not be sad. We must hope for the best, and see what can be done. 
I will send you that which will raise your spirits ; but your mind must 
be tranquil: you must be quite calm. In the morning Til see you 
again." 

He then gently pressed her thin, weak, fieshless hand, and, as she 
fervently breathed forth her thanks, he left her. 

On leaving the room, he was followed by her heart-stricken mother, 
who exclaimed, with an expression of anxiety which denoted the exist- 
ence of those feelings which mothers only can experience — 

"Pray, sir, tell me: are there any grounds for hope? — or will my 
poor dear child be lost to me for ever?" 

" My, dear lady," replied Mr. Scholefield, who, although he perceived 
deaarly that the case was hopeless, felt perfectly justified in concealing 
th(» mt the&i " iifhen I mU iii the monik^g, I shaU be abk to .express ft 



THIfi 60HKA»fBULX8T. S07 

more decided opinion. For the present, be assured that there is no im- 
mediate danger." 

The poor lady cherished the hope thus inspired, and, clasping her 
hands Avith deep fervour, thanked God. 

" But," he added, " how long has your daughter been ill?" 

" She has been sinking, sir, gradually, for nearly twelvemonths." 

" Has anything of very great importance ever occurred to her? Do 
you know of any circumstance at all calculated to prey upon her mind?" 

''Alas! yes. I ascribe it all to that. She became, sir, about twelvt 
months since, enamoured, deeply enamoured, of a gentleman — ^a medical 
student — ^who— " 

" I perceive, my dear lady. I do not wish to pry into any private 
matter: that medical student, I perceive, was a villain." 

"No, thank heaven! She is virtuous, sir—pure as an angel! And 
he, I believe, was virtuous, too. But having — ^I do not say intention* 
ally — ^I do not believe that the slightest blame can attach to him— -but 
having fascinated my dear child, she saw him no more." 

" Was he aware of the fact of his having made this impression?" 

"I think not: and even assiuning that he was, he, perhaps, acted 
wisely in the view of the world, for he was young — ^very yoimg; while 
my child was then in a position far, very far, below the sphere in which 
she had been accustomed to move." 

" Did she write to him at all?" 

" She, unfortunately, knew not where to write. She made every 
possible effort to ascertain — not with the view of being importunate, 
but merely in order to see him once more^^but, alas! she could gain 
no intelligence of him. There was one student at the hospital who 
knew him; but, although she applied to him frequently, all that she 
could learn from him was, that he had lefl. She then began to fade and 
pine, and has been pining ever since. She remained in the situation 
she occupied then, until she became too weak to perform its duties, and 
now, sir, although once a lovely girl, she is as you have seen her." 

" Did he leave her unkindly?" 

'* Unhappily, no, sir. Had he been unkind, her pride would hatt 
sustained her. But he was, on the contrary, most kind and courteous. 
Tou probably perceived that she wore bracelets. Those bracelets were 
his g^. She wears them constantly: she would not part with them 
ft* worlds!" 

" I wish that I knew where to find him. You, of Course, know hil 
name?" 

" His name we could ne^ir learn: my child never heard more than 
his christian name mentioned." 

" That's very xmfortunate: very." 

" I do believe, sir, that if she could but see him once again, her rt* 
covery even now would be almost immediati/' 

^' Well, then, let us hope that she wiU again tee h^.'* 

" I fear that that is hopeless." 

" Things apparently more impossible hatY oeettftcL" 

" Very true, sir: ftsif tru*." 



206 «¥£VB»VEB 80UKD 

<^ Well, then, do not despair. Hope still, and conceal jonr distress as 
mnch as possible ^m her/* 

** I will do so,** the poor ladj exclaimed, as finesh tears gushed from 
her eyes ; " as much as possible, I will." 

Mr. Scholefield then promised to send to her immediately on his re- 
torn, and to see her again in the mooning, and haying reassured her that 
there was no immediate danger, he left her leinspired with hopec 

During dinner that day, Mr. Schol^^d alluded to this distressing 
case; m^^y stating, however, that the poor girl had formed a rbmantic 
attachment to a young man, whom sbe had since nevear seen^ and tliat 
she was dien in consequence pining away in a hopeless state of consump- 
tion. This statement, brief as it was, interested Sylvester deeply^, and 
as he had never witnessed a case of the kindr^-ias he had never seeii the 
hectic flush, and the various other symptoms of approaching deaths 
which are, in such cases, commonly developed**^ was su^ested by Mr. 
Scholefield— idio was, at all times, anxious to advance Sylvester's^ pro- 
fessional knowledge — ^that, in the m(»:ning, they should Tsit ithE'^poor 
girl together. ' i, - . .7/ 

In the morning they accordingly went, and, on enteiing die copm^ 
found the old lady much more tranquil; but the very iiiatant Sjrlv^ster 
approached the bed, the poor girl started as if from a dream. :i n Uv^i 

"Mother! mother!" she exclaimed; "look! there/ > Hame il my- 
senses still, or have I lost them? Is this a visionP-^Sylvesteif I" ishejadded, 
as he extended his hand, for, in an instant, he recognised JiilMiA^SOh, 
this is joy beyond expression," and, seizing his hand with aH th&ienergy 
at her command, she passionately kissed it, and wept. 

" My poor girl," said Sylvester, tenderly; and, while his eyes were 
filled with tears, her mother stood struck with amazement. " How is it 
with you?" 

"Oh! I am happy now— quite— quite happy — Sylvester! Ohi h6# I 
have prayed to behold you once again. Blessed be Godr' she added, 
devoutly ;" my prayers have been heard." 

. " And now," said Mr. Scholefield, having somewhat recovered from 
the state of surprise into which this unexpected scene had thrown him; 
" you and I must come at once to an understanding. I have," he added, 
with a smile which caused her to bless him^ " I have brought hdm, whom 
I perceive you were rather anxious to see, with me; but, understand, I 
must bring him no more, imless you promise me faithfully that you will 
be henceforward calm." 

"I do promise faithfully: I will be calm." 

" I must not allow him to come here and throw you into this state of 
excitement, when my object is to keep you as tranquil as possible." 

"I will be tranquil: indeed, I will. I am not excited now I I am 
only happy." 

"Very well: then he shall again come tOj see you." 

"Heaven will Wess you for this I" exclairtied Jtdia; and Mr. Schole- 
field and her mother retired to the window. *^ Sylvester !" she added, 
with a look of unspeakable fondness; "can you f6rgive me?" 

" Forgive you, my poor girl, what have I to forgive?" 



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THK SOMNAMBUUST. 209 

" My bolduoss ; my forwardness.'* 
*' How can I forgive that of which I am unconscioiiB?" 
** You ai-e kind I*' she i^eplied. "But tell me: have you been well?— 
and happy?" 

" I have : and sorry indeed am I, to find that you have not." 
" I have not been ; but I am happy now, and hope to be soon again 
well. But you will not despise me ? I cannot conceal from you that which 
I know that I ought to conceal. But, oh! how I have longed to aee 
you ! Do you remember that happy evening? — the evening on which 
you gave me these?" 

Sylvester, who then, for the first time, noticed the bracelets, replied 
that he did. 

"You were smiling then," she continued; "why do you not now 
smile?" 

Sylvester burst into tears. 

"Do you weep for me?'* she faintly inquired. " Grod bless you ! Do 
you not think then that I shall recover?" 

"Well," said Mr. Scholefield, coming forward, "we must now for 
tlie present leave you: but, remember, you must be quite calm!" 

" I will be calm— quite calm," replied Julia, who still held Sylvester's 
hand in hers ; and when Mr. Schold&eld was leaving the room, Sylvester 
said " I will see you this evening." 

" You will !" she exclaimed, with an expression of ecstacy. 
"I will" 

She kissed his hand, and he left her happy. 

On leaving the house, Sylvester explained to Mr. Scholefield the 
circumstances imder which he had previously known her, and having 
related the history of the bracelets, and all that had been said of her 
by Tom, he earnestly inquired if her recovery were hopeless. 

Mr. Scholefield replied that it was— quite hopeless. " She may,'" he 
added, "live four or five days longer; but your interview with her has, 
in all probability, exhausted nearly the whole of her remaining strength. 
Poor girl I I am, indeed, very sorry for her. She has been, it appears, 
the sole support of her mother: her death will break the old lady's 
heart." 

"Do you think," inquired Sylvester, cautiously, "do you think that 
they are in poverty now?" 

"I should say, not in absolute poverty : that is to say, not in a state 
of actual destitution; but that they are poor, very poor, Fve no doubt." 
Sylvester was silent and thoughtful. He had in his desk a ten-pound 
note, and as he felt quite sure of being able to borrow another of Tom, 
he resolved on sending them twenty pounds, anonymously, in the course 
of the morning. 

In pursuance of this resolution he, on leaving Mr. Scholefield, called 
upon Tom, who was at that period preparing to pass the college. 

"Tom," said he, "I want ten pounds. I wish you'd let me have it, 
till I can hear from my aunt?" 
"Ted what!" cried Tom. 
"Ten pounds." 

Q 



SIO 8TLTX8TBB taUllD. 

''Is there such a sub id the world?" 

" Why it isn't a very enormous sum!" 

^ I dodt thidk there is such a sub ; / dever had such a sub id by 
possessiodi I should like to see the bad who has got ted poudds. 
There was a swell, add his nabe was Cnssus, who bight have had ted 
poudds by hib ; but I dcver jret heard of a Croesus secuddus" 

'* Nay, but joking apart, Tom; will you let me have ten pounds for 
a few days?** 

'' By dear fellow, ask be for ted drops of blood, add PU give eb to you 
freely; but what state of bide do you ibagide the old people would be 
id if they fadcied I had the sub of ted poudds by be? They have derer 
yet let be have such ad aboudt of buddy. Ted poudds! WoulddPt I 
have a flare*up with ted poudds!*' 

" Well," said Sylvester, " it's a matter of slight importance. I did 
want twenty, but as IVe only ten, I must make ten do for to-day." 

" Stopr cried Tom ; " a thought strikes be. Did you ever go to by 
udcles?" 

"No; I never knew that you had one." 

" Greed, Syl! still extrebely greed. / dever saw hib ; but all our fel- 
lows have: he is, I believe, dearly related to the lot. Dow, I'll tell you 
what it is, Syl, I haved't ted poudds, but Fve a watch which did, I b^ 
lieve, origidally belodg to by graddbother's graddfeiher's secodd wife*« 
bother, add which I udderstadd is worth thirty. If, therefore, you thidk 
that we cad buster up courage edough to take this to the pawdbioker's, 
I've doe doubt he'll ledd us the sub of ted poudds upod it." 

" Oh, Fve a watch, too ! But I don't know how to manage it." 

" Oh, we'll badage it sobehow. Let's take theb both, add if bide isd't 
valuable edough, you kdow, he cad hold yours as well." 

" Mine's worth more than twenty pounds." 

" Well, but there's dothidg at all like beidg sure. Cobe alodg, add 
let's try our luck. I should like to see what sort of a swell this udi- 
versal relatiod of madkide is." 

They accordingly went to a pawnbroker's shop, and looked artfully in 
at the window for a time, and then walked on a little, and turned and re- 
turned, and examined the goods in the window again ; and then anxiously 
looked up the street and then down, with the view of ascertaining if any 
one were watching them. 

" WeU," said Tom, at length, " shall we go id?" 

" Why," returned Sylvester, " I don't at all like the ideal. Suppose 
any one were to see us?" 

" That would be awkward, certaidly. But })ight they dot thidk that 
we ^vedt id to buy sobething?" 

" Well, it is true they might think so. But really I don't at all fancy 
the thing." 

" Well, I'll tell you what I'll do," said Tom. " Perhaps it doesd't 
look well for two fellows like us to go id together ; I'll toss you for the 
chadce — such a chadee as it is: heads, I go id: tails, you go." 

"Agreed," said Sylvester; and when they had removed from the 
window Tom tossed, and the result was a head. 




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THE SOMNAMBULIST. 211 

" By usual luck!" he exclaimed. "But dever bide: I'll go.'* 

And he did go, boldly — ^up to the window; and stopped, and examined 
the little articles exhibited therein, and then went back to Sylvester 
fraught ^vith an idea. 

" Syl," said he, with a doubtful expression. " I say! will it look well, 
do you thidk, for wud fellow to go id with two watches?" 

" Perhaps not," returned Sylvester ; who began to wish that he hadn't 
embarked at all in this expedition. 

" Who kdows," resumed Tom-, «* they bay thidk that I stole theb. Til 
tell you what, Syl; let's go idto this public-house, add talk over the 
batter calbly." 

Into the public-house they accordingly went ; and when Sylvester had 
ordered a bottle of soda-water for himself, and Tom had called, of course, 
for a pot of porter, they sat down with the view of having a calm dis- 
cussion on the intricate ramifications of the case. 

" Dow," said Tom, " the questiod is, what's best to be dode? Add 
id the first place, what do you suggest?" 

" Why, I think that we had better give it up!" replied Sylvester. 

"Give it up! Dever! We'll have the buddy. Stop a bidite," said 
he, as the waiter entered; "there, that'll do: we'll oped that. Dow," 
he added, having pulled out two-thirds of the porter, " I'b ready for 
adythidg id life. I'll tell you what I'll do; I'll go over with wud, add 
thed they cad have doe suspiciod." 

" Well then, take mine," said Sylvester. 

"Doe: that wod't do. Suppose they ask if the watch is by owd? 
Dod't you see? I cad't say yes. Add if I were, add it should cobe to 
a search, add the oflSicer were to fide adother watch id by pocket — ^but 
that I could leave here: yes, I bight do that: still I'd better take by 
owd. I wudder what sort of questiods they usually ask. I'U bet ted to 
wad Th bowled out." 

" Then don't go." 

" Dot go ! What are you talkidg about? What have I to fear? * I 
wadt you to ledd be ted poudds upod this.' That's all I have to say ; 
add a child could say that. I have seed childred frequedtly go id alode. 
If they should have ady doubt about the batter, I'll bridg theb over 
here. But thed it bight cobe to a pair of haddcuffs; we bight thed be 
barched off together od suspiciod." 

" We had better give it up," said Sylvester. " You had better not go." 

" Go! /'// go !" cried Tom, valiantly; and having finished his porter, 
he left the room with the air of «a man who fully expected to meet an 
enraged rhinoceros. 

During his absence, Sylvester was filled with apprehension. He con- 
ceived that Tom might be suspected of dishonesty — ^that he might be 
detained — ^that he might be given into the custody of a policeman, and 
that the result would be a humiliating exposure. He tried to subdue 
the fears thus inspired, but as Tom was absent a very long time, they 
every moment acquired fresh strength. 

At length, however, Tom returned, and on entering the rooin he 
dashed his hat upon the table, and exclaimed— 

<i2 



212 BT],DK9T^R BOUKD 

'* Kb of doc use, Sjl: I cad*t do it ! I did just dow work bjs^lf up 
idto a. fit of desperatiod^ but just as I was bakidg a rush id, a fellow 
cabe to the door with a.ped be^de his ear^ add looked at be exactly ^ 
if he suspected that I was goidg to cut a pade of glass out of his widdow. 
Dow m tell you what we'll do. I kdow a fellow who's up to every 
Ihidg of the sort We'll go to his lodgidgs-r-Ae7Z do it id a bobedt. 
Cobe alodgr 

" No," said Sylvester, " I shouldn't like that. Pon't you think that 
the doctor would lend me ten poiwds?" 

*' Id ad idstadt! I dever thought of that l-!-*of course he would." /^ 

" I do not like to have it of I&. Scholefield, because he would know 
at once what I wanted it for.** 

" Thed have it of the goverdor f Shall I ask hib for you?" 

"No;; I think it would look better for me to ask him myself.'*. . 

« Very well; thed cobe alodg; we shall just about catch hib at hobe. 
rd. ask hib to ledd it to he, but that would be doe go at all.'^ 

They then lefl the house, and, as they returned to the doctor's resi- 
depce, Sylvester said — ^** Have you seen Julia lately?" ^ , 

"Doe," replied Tom; "I've dot beed to the house for a lodg tibe. 
But I beUeve she has left. HI health, I believe, was the cause of. her 
leayi^g. The last tibe J saw her — ^that was sobe bodths ago— she 
wadted to kdow where you lived, but, of course, I didd't feel at all justii- 
fied id gividg her your address." 

., Sylvester was silent; and as the subject was not pursued by Tom, 
they returned in silence to the residence of the doctor, who was then in 
the library alone. 

" You had better go id at wudce," said Tom. " I shall be id by study^ 
, Dod't leave, you kdow, without cobidg up.'* 

Sylvester promised that he would not ; and on going into the library 
was received by the doctor, as usual, with the utmost cordiality and 
kindness. 

" Doctor," said he, " I have to ask you a favour. It happens that I 
want ten pounds until I receive a remittance from my aunt, which will 
be the day after to-morrow." 
. "Y^good." 

f'Will you 4o me the favour to let me have it?" 

" Of course! I am quite sure that the purpose for which you want 
it 29 a good one." 

".It is.. , I,do not li)cQ to ask Mr. Scholefield—'* 
; .^^My good feUow, n,ot another word. Here is a cheque for fifleeu." 

" Ten will be quite sufficient." 

"I h^ve wTitt^.it,i^pw^,an4 whenever you happen to want money, 
corneal- once .to met" .... , . ;, 

He then inquired after Mr. Scholefield, and when he had made a few 
remarks hayiiig r^^qnpe,,to pfo/e5si,p;Qal matti^rs, Sylyester withdrew, 
and went up stairs to Tom. 

" Well," said. Tom,*' he, leiypu hqy^ the. buddy, of course?" 
.. **^n<a4^omeny^r^pJie4T %h^^^ hi«i for ten, and he 

gave me a cheque for fifleen.'^ . j 



TitK S6MKA!BIBdLfST. HZ 

" What ad out-add-out systeb, that chequ^ sys^teb in. It sslves a bad 
the trouble of puttidg his hadd Mto his pocket, which is very addoyidg 
whed there's doe buddy there. I dever -^vrote wud id by life. I should 
like to write a few. I'b sure it must be a cobfbrt.'* 

" When you know that they will be cashed/' 

" That's of course what I bead. If ady badker id dature would cash 
by cheques, I'd give hib add all his clerks twelvebodths hard labour." 

" But you are not short of money, are you?" 

"Dot a bit of it! I dod't wacCt huch] but I'b dever without a sov. 
Whed I cobe dowd to wud, that's the aigdal for actiod : I dever let eb rest 
till they bake it up five. Five's the hcuihud: Wud^s the bidibub; but the 
goverdor owes be two, which I cad't get." 

"He aM;Myou two!'* 

" Of course. About twelvebodths ago> a swell swiddled hib out of two 
—which two he said I bight get if I could; but I cad't fide the feHow — 
add as I therefore cad't get the buddy of hib, the goverdor oweis it of 
coui'sel" 

" Well, if you can convince him that he owes itby such a line of 
logic as that, I have not the slightest doubt that he'll pay you." ' 

"I expect he'll give it be wud of these days id a state of disgust," to 
get rid of the addoyadce. But I say, you'll stop add have d bit of ludch 
with be?" 

" No ; not this morning." 

" I've got sobe pribe stout, add the bortal rebaids of a capital pie ! 
Have a look at it." 

" No, I mM5< be off." 

" Well, if you bust, why, you bust ! But whedever you wadt t6 go to 
by udcles, you cad't do better thad take be with you. That's a dodgfel 
shcUTt forget." 

Sylvester smiled, and left him; and when he had got the cheque 
cashed, he enclosed the whole of the twenty-five poimds, with a delicate 
note, signed simply "^ Friend j" and privately sent it to Julia's mbther. 

In the evening — ^having previously intimated to Mr.'Scholefield that 
he had promised to call upon Julia — he performed that promise, atid tJie 
moment he entered the room, the old lady — ^who felt sure that the inoney 
had been sent by him — ^fell upon his neck, blessed hita, and s<A)be<!''like a 

child. ■'-' ' 

On reaching the bed, he found Julia much weaker. Hi*r feyefif, indeed, 
flashed as she beheld him, and the blood rushed' at <Acd t6 hef cheeks; 
but lier glance soon changed to ^n ioei:prigS8i'\re- glarfe, and het^fcheeks 
became deadly pale. ' ■"' ' ' ■ ' 

** My'dear girl," said Sylvester; p^ceiVii^ at bticfe; thai Mi^. S<iholefield's 
conjecture was correct; "I fear ttiat you arc noV^Vu*e'db Well this 
eveidogr' ■' ■ " '■••""•■ '^ :!/: :.-;t..;.. .i..,." --^ ••-•'•' 

Jiilla had not the pov?'er to ^j^'k\kk^^&'iA^ 
faint to be heard. , ""' ' '/' ' " . ' * 

. VBut, come," resumed Sylvestei'^ 'Uuietifi "^ti^mUst not be sad. 
All may yet be well. Julia, I hare cbift^ tJb tjijl Mrith" J^ti-i^^o converse 
with you, Julia." 



214 SYLVESTER SOUND 

iulia sighed, and slightly smiled, as she pressed his hand to her 
pallid lips. 

** Julia," said Sylvester, after a pause, during which her eyes conti- 
nued to be fixed upon him ; " will you for a moment excuse me?" 

Her lips moved, and Sylvester, on bending his ear to them, heard, 
fiuntly, the words, ** You will not leave me long?" 

" I will not be one moment," he replied, and, on leaving the room, he 
sent a man off to Mr. Scholefield, to request his immediate attendance. 

On his return, he resumed his seat, in silence, by her side, and again 
took her weak hand, and met her fond gaze; and thus he continued to 
•it in silence until Mr. Scholefield arrived. 

Mr. Scholefield, who, in a moment, saw how the case stood, gave Julia 
a few drops of wine, which, in some degree, revived her; and, having 
instructed Sylvester what to do in an event which he clearly perceived 
to be inevitable, he sat for some time with the poor old lady — ^who was 
overwhelmed with grief, and whose heart was then ready to break — and 
when he had affectionately taken leave of Julia — as he felt, for the last 
time — ^he left them, with Sylvester's hand still clasped in hers. 

It was then eight o'clock, and for nearly an hour Sylvester sat watch- 
ing her, almost in silence, without perceiving the slightest change. 
About nine o'clock, however, she intimated a wish to have a little more 
wine, and — ^as ]\ii\ Scholefield had privately told him that whatever she 
wished for then the might have — Sylvester tenderly raised her head and 
gave her a few drops more. 

Again she revived and was able to speak, although but in a whisper ; 
and that so faint, that it could scarcely be said to have violated silence : 
still, finding that she had this power restored, she moved her lips slightly, 
and Sylvester listened. 

" Sylvester," he heard her say, '' I soon shall be no more. I feel that 
every hope of my recovery has fled : the only hope I cherish still, is that 
we may meet in heaven! God for ever bless youl I die happy, 
Sylvester ! — quite happy now that you are near me I Pray for me, 
Sylvester — ^pray with me. Angels of light are waiting now to bear our 
prayers to heaven !" 

Sylvester, who was deeply affected, knelt and prayed with fervour: 
her mother also knelt and prayed — and Julia ceased to breathe 1 

They were, however, for some time unconscious of this, for her eyes 
rcontinued bright, and her features were unchanged, while she still 
pressed Sylvester's hand ; but, when they at length found that her spirit 
had fled, her poor devoted, broken-hearted, mother gave one convulsive 
ihriek, and instantly fell upon the bed a corpse I 

For some time Sylvester stood by the bed motionless. His faculties 
were paralysed. He seemed struck with horror ! Eventually, how- 
ever, he recovered himself, and summoned assistance from below. 

The person who kept the house — a kind, honest, motherly creature 
*i— no sooner ascertained what had occurred, than she begged of him, as 
•a favour, to remain — ^for she had heard from Julia's mother how Idnd 
lie had been— imtil he had seen what property had been left. 

To this Sylvester consented; and, at the earnest request of this poor 



THE BOMNAHBULIST. 215 

but honest woman, took charge of all the papers, money, and jewellery, 
found. 

"I feel that you will do all that is necessary," said Sylvester; "and 
be assured that you will not go imrewarded*" 

"I do not think of reward, sir," replied the good woman. "I wiU^ 
sir, do all that is necessary : for I loved the young lady as if she had 
been my own child, and her mother I regarded as a sister." 

" Those bracelets — " said Sylvester. 

"I have heard of them, sir: you wish them to remain on?" 

"I do." 

" They shall not be removed. Be assured that I ¥riU pay every possi- 
ble attention. 

" I feel assured that you wiU," said Sylvester, who left the house 
with a heavy heart, to explain at home all that had occurred. 

Mr. Scholefleld was not much surprised: he knew when he left 
the house that poor Julia could not live more than a few hours ; 
and although he imagined that her mother might linger some days, 
he felt sure that her daughter's death would break her heart; but 
Mrs. Scholefield — ^who of course did not view it as he did, profession- 
ally — ^took the deepest possible interest in the case, and went with Syl- 
vester in the morning to superintend the arrangements ; and that day 
week poor Julia and her mother were — ^followed by Sylvester — ^bome 
to the grave. 



CHAPTER XXV. 

THE 1IAID£N SPEECH IN PABLIAHBKT. 

Having related in the preceding chapter the only incident of impor- 
tance connected with this history, which occurred during Sylvester's 
residence with Mr. Scholefield, it wiU be necessary now to proceed from 
that period at which he passed with eclat, both the college and the 
hall. 

Fiading a strict adherence to that regimen, to which he had been 
accustomed while imder Mr. Scholefield's roof, now most inconvenient, 
he gradually reacquired the habit of living as those whom he visited 
lived; and, as he did so, his somnambidism— of which he was Still un- 
conscious — returned. 

It did not, however, develope itself strongly at first: but, by degrees, 
he could eat, drink, walk, converse, read, write, compose, and translate, 
with as much facility while asleep as he cOidd when awake. It 
frequently puzzled him, when, on rising in the momiag,he found a mass 
of matter on the table which had been composed by him in the course 
of thc^ night: indeed, he had not left the house of Mr. Scholefield mor6 
than a month, when he discovered in one of his drawera an elabarat# 
Tx^a^ oa tibe lections of the Hearty of the compocdtioa of which 



216 mifz^T^ sovjw 

he had no recollecdon, although it had been numifestlj written bjr 
hinuelf. 

Nor was this all: essays aiid other articles^ with which he occasion- 
allj ftunished the yariou^ medical joumals, were writteu duripg alfep : 
he had bnt to commenpe or tUok about one in theeyeniogt xu> matter 
how difficult the subjecti to fiii4 it completed in the nwnmiBg when h^ 
rose. 

These circumstances, constantly occurring as they did, engeodefled a 
peculiar species of superstition. He imagined that he. was under the 
influence of Genii, and this idea led him into abstruse speoulationB on 
supernatural influences in general ; in which speculations, as a matter xx£ 
gratitude, those Grenii rendered him some powerful a ssist a n ce, but-only 
of course when their slave was asleep. 

He had, however, too much knowledge to progress in the black art ,to 
atiy great extent: his reasoning powers were too acute to allow him to 
embrace that pseudo science : still he felt involved in a mystery, the 
solution of which he held to be beyond aU human power, and while 
with reason he annihilated the temples of the Genii, he without reason, 
citmg to the ruins still. 

But even then his somnambulism was not confined to his chambers. 
Sometimes he would walk when the moon was up with a lamp in his 
hand; which, although extinguished, he fancied illumined all aroimd: 
sometimes he woiUd rise about three o'clock, walk to the Serpentine, 
fast asleep, bathe for an hour, dress himself, and then return to bed; 
and frequently, when he had been to a ball, would he return in an hour 
or two, recommence dancing, and stop till the last, while aU whom he 
met, or with whom he conversed, were imconscious of the fact of his 
being asleep. 

On one occasion, four of his most esteemed friends called at his lodg- 
ings about five o'clock— the hour at which he invariably dined- — and 
acted and talked precisely as if they had made up their minds to stop. 
He would, at any other time, have been very glad to see them; but, as 
he wanted his dinner, he felt their presence, then, to be extremely in- 
convenient ; and soon began to feel most impatient for their departure. 
But they had not the slightest notion of starting: not they. There they 
were, and there they stuck, wondering what highly-rimportant personage 
had been invited to meet them, for they all felt that he must be a person 
of gi-eat distinction, to induce Sylvester to keep them waiting so long. 

" I say,*' inquired one of them, about six o'clock ; " whom are you 
waiting for?" 

" Whom am I waiting for! No one," said Sylvester* ' 

" Oh, I thought you were waiting for some one," . 

" No. What induced you to think that I was?" 

" I thought so merely bepfiu^e it's six o'clock. ThaVs all!" 

" It is six," said Sylvester, looking at his watch, and, as he did so, he 
privately wished they'd be off, but of this they had not .even the most 
remote idea; and their manifest tenacity to the place was, in his view, 
amazing. He couldn't und^i^tan^ it. ..They neirer called befoare at such 
an hour; nor had he i^er known tliem to linger so long. . Had one^ cat 



Tfite SOMif^AMiULIST. 217 

evien two, of them dropped in upon him, he wouldn't have thought much 
about it; but the idea of four having called at the same tin^e — ^and that, 
too, at suck a time — certainly did strike him as being most strange. 

Htdf-past six arrived; and there they were still — ^impatient but merry 
-hungry but gay — ^indulging in pointed but lively allusiooB to maiden 
dinners and wolfish guests, which, to Sylvester, were wholly incom- 
prehensible. 
■• "Is youi* cooh ill, old fellow?" said one of them. 

« Not that Fm aware of." 

"I thought that she might have been seized with something su^U 
denly.'' 

" She may haV6 been, for aught I know," sadd Sylvester, who joined in 
the general laugh. '^ I have not had the pleasure of either seeing her 
lately, or receiving anything from her." 

They now thought that something must have occurred in the kitchen, 
and attributed Sylvester's obvious impatience to sonae peculiar species 
of domestic mortification. They, therefore, resolved on waiting tUl seven 
without making any further allusion to the subject; but, before that 
hour had arrived, Sylvester — finding they wouldnH go-Hsaid, boldly, 
" 111 tell you what, gentlemen, Tmust have my dinner!" 
' "Do so, by all means," said one of them; "oh, yes; have it up at 
once." 

Well. Sylvester certainly thought this cool; but as it was then quite 
clear that they meant to see him eat it, he turned and rang the bell. 

" Bring up the dinner," said he, when the servant entered. 

" Here, sir; in this room?" 

^'Yes." 

The servant looked, and frowned upon them all, which was, perhaps, 
but natural, seeing that cook had, for nearly two hours, been frowning 
upon her. She left the room, however, immediately; and on her return 
laid the cloth for one! The guests glanced at each other, as if they 
didn't understand this — ^nor did they: but, conceiving that the servant 
might feel confused, and that, in her confiision, she had become quite 
obtivious, they were silent. When, however, the girl— whom they now 
watched narrowly — ^brought up the tray, and placed on the table nothing 
but^asmall calFs tongue, and a couple of chickens done to rags, the case 
became, in their judjgment, serious. 

" I say, old fellow, how's this?" said one of them; **are you going to 
dine alone?" 

" Unless you'll have a cut in with me," replied Sylvester, . 

"A cut in? What! four or five fellows, as hunj^ as wolves, cut 
into a couple of chickens! You know; I duppose^ that we".ci>^ to dine 
with you?" 

" Dine with me? No ! Why didn't you tell, me you were covaixag? 
I'd no idea of itr 

" Not after having invited usf" 

" What <fo you mean?" 

" Did you not send notesto all of 119 tldt iaqnan^, i?)^i^F8 ^ ^ ^^ 
ifdtii yon a« five?** 



218 8TLYX8ZBB SOUND 

"No: certainlj notf 

" Well, but I received one." 

" And so did II — and I! — ^and I !" cried the rert. 

" But not from me. Have you one of them with you?" 

Their hands were in their pockets in an instant, but thej found that 
not one of the notes had been brought. 

" And have you been waiting all this time for dinner?" 

"Of course." 

" And I have been waiting for you to go! It's a hoax! But oome 
along: well soon make it all right." 

" Stop a minute," said one, " for Fm ready to drop!" And seizing a 
chicken^ he had a " cut in." The rest followed his example, for their 
appetites were keen; and when they had managed to pick all the bones, 
which they did in the space of three minutes, Sylvester took them to the 
nearest hotel, and ordered the best dinner that could be served up at 
eight. 

The "hoax," as they all now conceived it to be, was a source of 
much merriment during the evening. It gave a z^ to the dinner, a 
zest to the wine, and a zest to every joke that was uttered. They en- 
joyed themselves exceedingly — ^infinitely more than they could other- 
wise have done ; and, on leaving, they all pronounced it to be the merriest 
evening they had ever spent. 

It was about twelve when Sylvester returned to his lodgings, and in 
ten minutes after his return he was in bed and asleep. He had not, 
however, been asleep long, when — his imagination being somewhat 
heated by wine — he commenced dreaming; and as this led to results 
which will be anon explained, it will be as well for the dream itself to 
be at once related. 

In the first place, then, he imagined himself a candidate for the repre- 
sentation of his native coimty. A requisition, signed by all the free- 
holders in the county save one, had been forwarded to him, and as he 
had therefore consented to stand, the whole of the scenes which are held 
to be inseparable from a contested election, then passed in review before 
him. The formation of the committee — the preliminary meetings — ^the 
nomination — ^the election — ^the declaration — ^the chairing — and the ball, 
followed each other in rapid succession. He was returned, of course: 
for there was only one man who voted against him, and that was the 
other candidate, whom he challenged in consequence : fought, with two 
pieces of ordnance carrying twenty-four pounders, and wounded in tiie 
ear ; and having accomplished all this, came to town, where he then was 
engaged in the preparation of various highly important bills, which he 
intended to submit to the house without delay. 

Having arrived at this interesting point, he imagined that that was 
the very day on which his presence in the house was expected, and as it 
soon came down to the hour at which two honourable members would 
be waiting to introduce him, he rose, and having dressed with care, 
walked down to the House, with one of his " bills " — ^which was, in 
reality, a " Treatise on the Ear" — ^under his arm. 

This was about half-past twelve; for the whole of the dreian had 



THE 80MNAMBULI8T. 219 

not occupied more than three minutes ; and, on reaching the House, into 
which he well knew the way, having been frequently under the gallery, 
he looked about the lobby for the honourable members whom he ex- 
pected would be waiting to receive him ; when, being unable to recog- 
nise them there, he walked boldly into the house, bowed to the Speaker, 
and took his seat. 

The confident air with which he entered, would alone have been suf- 
ficient to disarm all suspicion of his being a stranger, if even any such 
suspicion had been excited; but as it occurred just after a general elec- 
tion, when a host of new members are almost invariably returned, the 
door-keepers thought of course that he was one of them. 

Nor did the members themselves for a moment suspect that he was 
not: in fact, the idea of his being an intruder, never occurred to any 
one of them. They all thought that of course he was one of the new 
members; and, being interested in his appearance, inqtdred anxiously 
of each other who he was. 

Sylvester, however, took no notice of them ; that is to say, indivi- 
ally: he viewed them only in the mass: his attention was fixed upon 
those who addressed the house; the arguments adduced by some of 
whom he rose to answer, but being unable to catch the Speaker's eye, 
others followed, and he resumed his seat. 

The question before the house on that occasion, had reference to the 
practice of baking the dinners of the poor on the Sunday, and Sylvester 
felt disgusted with the wild fanaticism by which the speeches of some of 
the opponents of that practice were characterised. It was hence that he 
rose to reply to them, and was sorry when he found himself compelled to 
resume his seat. He was stiU, however, on the qui mve; and as the ho- 
nourable member who was then speaking, was the most malignant, bigoted, 
superficial, self-sufiicient, persecuting, narrow-minded puritan of them 
all, the very moment he had finished, Sylvester, fired with indignation, 
started up, caught the eye of the Speaker, and commenced. 

He was, however, for a moment compelled to pause; for the house, as 
a matter of courtesy, cheered him ; and when the cheering had subsided 
into the most profound silence, he felt himself much more calm and said, 

" Sir, — ^In every society, and in every circle, in every house, institu- 
tion, or assembly, in which religious enthusiasm has been tolerated, it 
has engendered dissensions, bitterness, heart-burnings, and hatred-— 
severed friendships, subdued affections, destroyed brotherly love and 
sympathy— converted harmony into discord, happiness into misery, and 
filled the mind in which sweet peace reigned, with fearful apprehensions. 
(Cheers.) Sir, religious enthusiasm, as it is called, but which I call 
fanaticism, is as distinct from religion itself, as intolerance is from 
charity, as humility is from pride, as meekness is from arrogance, or 
as christian forbearance is from cruel persecution. Its essence is tyranny : 
its history has been written in blood. Ignorance is one of its chief cha- 
racteristics, and even where the germs of genius have struck root in the 
soil, it has sprung up, and waved and bloomed but to be blasted. Its 

S resumption shocks heaven. It would impiously wrest the sword (^ 
lutioe) Had the sceptre of Mercyi from the handa of the £icsmal God* 



220 BYLVElWElt SOUND 

(Great sensation.) To the advancement of human knowledge it has 
been opposed : to the progress of science it has ever been a bitter foe. 
The pretence of the puritans is, and always has been, that they fear 
that science will compass the destruction of religion ! Science compass 
the destruction of reUgionI It is false that they have any such fear; 
and if it were truci the inspiration of that fear is of itself impiouisf. Be- 
ligion derives its light £rom truth, even as the moon derives her lustre 
mm ihe sun. It is based upon truth, and truth is eternal: 

* The Stan shall fade awaj% the son him»elf 
Grow dim with age, and Nature sink in years; 
But Truth shiJl flourish in immortal youthi 
Unhurt amidst the war of elements, 
The wreck of matter, and the crash of worlds/ 

No I (continued Sylvester, when the cheering had subisided.) tt" i^ 
not iihat they fear the destruction of religion: they are' apprehensive 
only of the destruction of that fanaticism which stands between dark- 
ness iand light. It therefore behoves us, as the chosen i^presentatives of 
^he people, whose morality and whose happiness it is our duty tb prottfote, 
it behoves us, I say, when we see this religious enthusiasm, or ratlier 
this fanaticism, thus endeavouring to creep in here, to repudiate it in 
limine, (Cheers.) They who are anxious to introduce it may be pure— ^ 
I say that they may be— ^I do not know that they are not ; but this I 
know, there^s nothing looks so much like a good shilling as a ba^ one. 
(Loud laughter.) Let us throw out at once this fanatical bill : let us 
crush this and every other attempt to circumscribe the alrek4y too 
limited comforts of the poor, and instead of sowing religious dissensions 
among the people, creating discord, and inspiring them with hatred of 
each other; let us legislate "with a view to promote the cultivation of 
those kindly, beautiful, generous, philantliropic feelings which impart a 
zest to life, and which bind man to man." 

At the conclusion of this speech, which was hailed with loud cheers, 
and which really was delivered with much point and energy, Sylvester 
at once resumed his seat; but while the members around him were 

(dug — " Who is he?'' in vain — ^for none could tell them — ^he rose and 



lefb the house. 



CHAPTER XXVI. 

tHE ACCUSATION. 



In the morning, while at breakfast, the eye of Sylvester rested, upon 
the speech which he himself had d^vered, and which he found ascribed 
to " An Hon. MbiMBEr.*! lie was struck with the speech:, iot becaiise 
it developed any extraordinary talent, but because the words employed 
were those which he had been in the habit of emplojdng, while the sen- 
tences were of his own construction. No man, perhaps, ever was, or 
ever will be, able to pass a speech of hi9 own lumoticed. Both in speak-' 



THE S03(INAMBULIST. 221 

ing and writing, every man has a peculiar style — a style, of which the 
peculiarity of it cannot be at once perceived by others, is very soon dig- 
covered by himself. Hence, though unconscious of its being his own, 
Sylvester dwelt upon this speech, notwithstanding it was but an outline 
of the question at issue — an outline which left the filling up to the ima- 
gination. Still it is questionable whether even this piece of declamation 
cgiuld have been delivered by him in the house when awake. Had he 
been in reality a member — albeit he might have felt equally indignant 
at the mode in which the subject was discussed — ^his calm, retiring, 
diffident nature would, in all ptobiability, have prompted him to be 
silent; but while asleep, ev^ry feeling, every id^a of fear^ was absent; 
he experienced no nei*vousness, no trepidations whatever his imagina- 
tion suggested, he did, regardless of all iuaf*vofurable consequences, 
S!eei^g that Danger never presented itself then to hie view. 

, Haviog read this speech again and again — suggesting improvements 
as he proceeded, precisely as if he had been conscious of its being his 
own— -he was amazed by the sudden arrival of Mr. Scholefield, whose 
countenance denoted the most painful anxiety. 

. '* Good God!" he exclaimed — " Sylvester, what have you been doing?" 
. " Doing?" echoed Sylvester, with an expression of wonder. " Ex- 
plain." 

".Where were you last night— or rather this morning?" 

" I^ast night I was at the hotel just above, with some friends." 
,. "At what time did you leave those friends?" 

" About twelve o'clock." 
, " W^ll, and where did you go then?" 
. " Where did I go? I came home and went to bed.'* 
. ^* Immediately?" 

"Immediately." 

'^Sylvester," said Mr. Scholefield, with deep emotion, ^'confide in 
m^. .Disguise nothing from me. I have," he added, as tears sprang 
into his eyes — " I have towards you the feelings of a father." 

" Why, how is this?" interrupted Sylvester. " What is the meaning 

" Sylvester, you have known me sufficiently long, I hope^ to kijow 
that I am your friend; therefore conceal nothing from me." 

" What have I to conceal? I am perfectly imconscious of having 
done anything which renders concealment necessary, or even expedient." 

" Did you not visit Lady Julian last night?** 

" Most certainly not. I have not seepr Lady Julian since I left you.'* 

"What! were you not there until three o'clock this morning?" 

"There!— where?" ' 

"At Sir Charles's house." 

'^'"tt6r- r ■" ' ■■'•••: ■ /' ' ' 

** 'Sylvester," resumed Mr. Sbholefi^dj s61etriltJy,'*^Sir;ChaT^^ himself, 
on lud return at that hour, saw you pias's out at Wi6 garden-gate.** 
**N6 such thing!" exclaimed Sylvester, ihdighHntly^ 
" Hfe declai^es it to be a fact," ' '' ■'' ' 

" Theti his declares that which is falsi^l* 
"But Thompson, his butler, saw jok Wd." 



222 flTLYSSTSB SOUND 

" Neither of them saw me. Neither could have seen me, for I was 
not there." 

"Sylvester, their evidence is strong, and, I fear, too conclusive. 
Thompson undertakes to swear that he saw you coming from the ante- 
room which leads to Lady Julian's chamber." 

"He does!" 

" He does ; and is, moreover, prepared to swear that he let you 
out. His statement is this: that h&ng anxious to see the butler at 
the next house, he went and conversed with him, until he heard Sir 
Charles's carriage approaching; that he instantly returned, and on his 
return, found the door as he had left it, slightly open; that he then 
closed the door, until the carriage should be announced, and having 
occasion to go up-stairs, saw you coming from the ante»room alone; 
and that on seeing you he descended and let 3rou out, just as the carriage 
drew up to the gate. 

" It is false I every word of it ! utterly fabe !** 

"He declares every word of it to be true! He also declares 
every word of it to be Irue ! He also declares that he should have 
spoken to you had he not felt that one of the other servants had let you 
in. In fact, having seen you there so frequently, and at almost all hours, 
both with me and alone, I don't suppose the idea of there being any 
impropriety in the visit for a moment occurred to him." 

" Well, but why did not Sir Charles himself speak?" 

"He did do so: at least, he says that he called to you before he 
could alight, and that you bowed and passed on; when, fearing liiat 
Lady JuHan — who is in a delicate state still — ^had had a relapse, he 
went immediately up to her chamber, and had she not at once denied 
that you had been there, no more would have been thought of the 
matter." 

" She was justified in denying it! She was bound to deny it ! I had 
not been there. If I had, be assured that to you I would, under existing 
circumstances, confess it." 

" I thought that you would!" 

" And think so still. Either Sir Charles and his butler have been 
grossly mistaken, or they have conspired to blast her reputation and 
mine." 

"That they have both been mistaken is certainly possible; but in 
the possibility of Sir Charles having entered into any such conspiracy 
I cannot believe. I know him to be devotedly attached to his wife. I 
have known him privately, and under almost every variety of circum- 
stances for years, and if any man can be said to know another's heart, I 
know his. No, Sylvester ; be assured that he is incapable of entering 
into such conspiracy." 

" What then is to be thought of it? He knows me well! I am per- 
fectly well known to them both! And is it not almost inconceivable that 
either of them could, under the circumstances, have mistaken any one 
else for me?" 

" It does indeed appear to be almost inconceivable." 

" Well !" exclaimed Sylvester. " The thing begins to assume a serious 
aspectr , 



THE SOMNAKBULIST. 223 

" Serious ! I contemplate the consequences with feelings of horror. 
Unless you can break down the evidence against you, your death may 
be the immediate result; and failing that, your ruin as a professional 
man will be inevitable. Sir Charles is in a state of mind bordering 
upon madness. He has ever since been raving for revenge. He cast 
Lady Julian off instantly ; and, but for the interposition of the servants, 
would have killed her; and now he has sent a friend to you to demand 
immediate satisfiBUition." 

"Is it possible?" 

" That friend is now in the room adjoining, where, as he called upon 
me first) not knowing your address, I b^ged of him to remain until I 
had seen you." 

" Well," said Sylvester, thoughtfully ; " the thing appears to be commg 
to a crisis I But, be assured of this, that I was not there. Will you," 
he added, calmly, " do me the favour to introduce him?" 

Mr. Scholefield, with an expression of sorrow, then rose and left the 
room; and having been absent for a moment, returned with Sir William 
D'Almaine. 

" This," said Sir William, on taking a seat, " is indeed a most unhappy 
affair; but as I can have no desire to harrow your feelings, I will, if 
you will favour me with the name of a friend, go immediately and con- 
sult him." 

" Sir William," returned Sylvester, " Sir Charles is mistaken. He 
imagines that I was at his house last night, or rather this morning. I 
was not.*^ 

" You were not? Do you intend, then, as a defence, to adopt a denial?" 

" I do; and in doing so, defend myself with truth." 

" Well; but Sir Charles himself saw you! and so did his butler!" 

" It is a mistake I they did not see wie." 

" Ohl that will not do at all! Sir Charles assures me, upon his 
honour, that he saw you; and I am, of course, bound to believe him." 

" You may perhaps believe that which he himself believes; but I deny 
that you are bound to adopt the belief of any man." 

" This is not belief, merely : he knows that you were there." 

" How is it possible for you to know that?" 

" He declares that you were, upon his honour!" 

" And I, upon my honour, declare that I was not!" 

" Equivocation, you must allow me to observe, in affairs of this kind, 
will not do." 

" I scorn equivocation, and despise the man who is mean enough to 
have recourse to it. I state upon my honour that I was not there ; and 
to lliat statement — ^based as it is upon truth — ^I will adhere, let the con- 
sequences be what they may.'* 

" Pardon me. You are a young man, and, therefore, you will, per- 
haps, allow me to observe that, in cases of this description, you have 
but one course to pursue." 

" I am aware of it. I have but one course to pursue, and that is the 
course of truth, which I will pursue." 

" Then am I to understand distinctly that you refuse to refer me to a 
friend?" 



224 flTLVESTBB SOUND 

" No! certainly not: I refer you at once to Sir Charles." 

" Aye, but that is a most extraordinary reference." 

'^ This proceeding appears to me to be extraordinary altogether. I 
refer you to him : consult him, and I will at that consultation be present." 

" That I apprehend, sir, would not be quite safe." 

'^ Not safe? Why not? What have I to fear? conscious qj I am of 
my own integrity. I will meet him with all the confidence truth can 
inspire, and I feel that my presence will induce the c<myiction that he 
has been mistaken." 

" Sylvester," calmly interposed Mr. Scholefield ; " allow me to si;^- 
gest that you had better depute me to see Sir Charles, and explain to 
him the feelings to which you have given such earnest expression." 

'< Mr. Scholefield," returned Syl:|0ie8ter, " I have, as I believe you are 
aware, been always anxious to iiilopt any suggestion of yours; but I 
submit — ^this being a matter of professional life or death to me--4hat I 
ought to see Sir Charles, and explain to him myself that he is labouring 
imder a most serious mistake." 

"Well," replied Mr. Scholefield; "I can have no objection to your 
seeing him." 

" I fear," observed Sir William^ " that he is not now in a fit state to 
view the matter calmly." 

" I am sure," said Sylvester, " that when Sur Charles sees me, he will 
be at once satisfied that I am not the man." 

" Well," said Sir William, who really b^gan to think that Sir Charles 
must have been mistaken, "if that be the case, why by all means 
come with me. Mr. Scholefield, perhaps, will accompany us?" 

" I will do so with pleasure," replied Mr. Scholefield; and without 
loss of time they left Sylvester's chambers, and proceeded to the house 
of Sir Charles. 

" Now," said Sir William, on their arrival, " I think that Mr. Schole- 
field and I had better go up first, and soothe Sir Charles—if possible." 

Sylvester did not object to this, and they accordingly left him in one 
of the parlours; but the moment they had explained to Sir Charles 
that Sylvester solemnly denied the accusation, and that he had come ex- 
pressly to deny it in person. Sir Charles rushed below, entered the room 
in which Sylvester had been left, and teLzing him by the throat, would 
have strangled him but for the prompt interference of Mr. Scholefield, 
who suspecting his object, had followed him on the instant. 

"Mean, base, cowardly, contemptible liar!" exclaimed Sir Charles, 
absolutely foaming with rage. " If you have not the courage to fight 
with me, I'll ruin you — ^ruin you — ^ruin you for ever!" 

" I'll not be thus insulted with impunity," cried Sylvester. " The 
accusation is false." 

" What!" exclaimed Sir Charles, seizing the poker on the instant — 
"what!" 

Sylvester was about to confront him, when Mr. Scholefield hurried 
him from the room, and when he had given his card to Sir William, 
with the name of Mr. Scholefield as his friend, he left the house, solemnly 
and most indignantly declaring his innocence of the charge. 



THE SOMNAMBULIST. 225 

CHAPTER XXVII. 

THE MEETING. 

StlvesteR) on leaving the house of Sir Charles with mingled feelings 
of indignation and alarm, proceeded at once to the residence of Mr, 
ScKolefield, lyith the view of awaiting his return. He knew not of 
course what would be the result; but having deputed Mr. Scholefield to 
act as IfiiB friend, and feeling prohibited from taking any step without his 
direct sanction, he summoned all the patience at his command, and took 
a ^eat in the surgery alone. 

While he was here, tortured with anxiety and brooding over the pro- 
bable' consequences of that which he felt of course conscious of being a 
mistake, Mr. Scholefield, whose apprehensions were even stronger than 
those of Sylvester, being determined if possible to ascertain the whole 
truth, and having learned that Lady Julian was at the house of her 
father^ went, in order to have an interview with her, unknown to Sir 
Charles and D'Almaine. 

On his arrival, he found her father in a dreadful state of excitement 
and somewhat uncourteous, conceiving, as he did, that a message had 
come from Sir Charles. 

"What is your object?" he demanded, when Mr. Scholefield had in- 
quired if he could see Lady Julian. " Why do you wish to see her? 
What have you to communicate? By whom were you commissioned to 
come? My daughter is innocent ! Sir Charles shall know to his cost 
that she is innocent! I^d stake my life upon her word! If, therefore, 
you are charged with any insulting or hmniliating message, she is not 
to be seen. I'll not have her insulted: 1*11 not have her humiliated. 
She is as virtuous now that she has returned to her father's house, as 
sjhe was. when she iefl it. Sir Charles, by whom I presume you have 
been sent—" 

" General Lloyd," calmly interrupted Mr. Scholefield, " I have not 
been sent by Sir Charles." 

" Do you come then in the character of a mediator?" 

"No. My object is to have an assurance from Lady Julian that Mr. 
Sound was not the gentleman whom Sir Charles saw." 

" Then you assume that she must have been visited by some one?" 

"I merely assume that Sir Charles must have seen some one." 

" Afsiuning that, does it follow that she knows whom he saw?" 

"Not necessarily; but — " 

"Sir, she knows nothing whatever about it: nor do I believe that he 
law any one at all. It is a trick, sir! — ^a conspiracy! — ^an infamous con- 
spiracy ! But /// sift the matter : I'll get to die bottom of it. He shall 
npt with impunity blast the reputation of my daughter." 

" General Lloyd, I ciune here with no other view than that of ascer- 

R 



226 STLTSSTEB 80U1ID 

taining if this young man — ^whom I regard as a son, and upon whose 
honour I have always placed the most perfect reliance — ^has been seen 
by Lady Julian since he left me. I am aware of its being an extremely 
delicate question, under the circumstances, to put to Lady Julian — " 

"Not at all — not at all ! If she has not, she will say so: if she has, 
she will declare it." 

" That is my only object in seeking an interview with her." 

"VeryweU." 

"I feel that you will appreciate my anxiety, when I explain to you 
that this yoimg man's very existence is at stake." 

"Has Sir Charles called him out, then?" 

"He has.'' 

"And does he intend to go?*' 

"I see no alternative." 

" The meeting must not take place. If Sir Charles should happen to 
fidly the reputation of my daughter will be for ever lost! It must by 
some means be prevented." 

"I am most anxious to prevent it; but how can it be done?" 

"Who is his friend?" 

« Sir William D'Ahnaine." 

"But the friend of the accused?" 

" He has referred them to me." 

"Grood. You are anxious to prevent it. You pledge me your 
honour that you wish to prevent it?" 

"I do." 

" Very good. Then it shall be done. Continue to act. I'll take 
care that you are not compromised. Continue to act. Under no other 
circumstances would I interfere, but in this case I feel bound to do so. 
And now come and speak to my daughter." 

The general then led the way into the drawing-room, and on finding 
Lady Julian in tears, he exclaimed, " Are you my daughter, Louise, or 
are you not? Are you innocent, or are you not? If you are, act like 
the daughter of a soldier, and let us have no more tears." 

Lady Julian seized the hand of Mr. Scholefield, and sobbed bitterly. 

"Louise!" shouted the general, "is this the way to repel the attacks 
of an enemy?" 

" Mr. Scholefield is no enemy, father," she replied. 

" I didn't say that he was. If he had been, I shouldn't have brought 
him up here. But be firm. Be a woman. Don't act like a child. 
Mr. Scholefield wants to know whether you have or have not seen that 
young fellow since — since when?" 

" Since he left me," said Mr. Scholefield. " You remember when he 
left me?" 

"I do, perfectly," replied Lady Julian; "I have not seen him since." 

"Neither last night nor at any other time?" 

" Neither last night nor at any other time since he came with Mr. 
Scholefield." 

"Very well," replied the general; " that point's settled. Is there any 
other question yo^ wish to have answered?" 



\ 



tms SOMNAlffBULIST. 227 

" My object," replied Mr. Scholefield, " was merely to ascertain that 
fact. Of course," he added, turning to Lady Julian, " you have no 
idea whom Sir Charles could have seen?" 

" I have not, indeed.*' 

" How should you have?" interposed the general. " YOu Were in 
bed, were you not?" 

" Yed; and had been asleep, but awoke jiist before Sir Charles Re- 
turned. But what does he say, Mr. Scholefield? - You have seen him, 
of course?" , . 

" I have but just left him." 

" Is he still labouring tmder this cruel delusidh?** 

" He ftppeilfs to be very much excited." 

" Of course!" cried the general. " He appears to be excited! That'i 
an indispeiisable part of the plan !" 

" You wrong hinij father: be assured thAt you Wrong him. This is 
no plan of his* I feel that he is incapable of any i9Uoh meanness." 

" Of oOtirse you do* Tm aWate of thdti And were he to crush you, 
you^d feel so still. You Wer^ a fool to marty him ; and I was a fool to 
consent to the match. We're a couple of fools, and as fools he wishes 
to treat ud. However, We shall see: we shall see about that: we shall 
8e4! We are not to be staiick down so easily as he imagines. Mr. 
Scholefield : a word or two with you, aloiife." 

" You will call and see lis?" exclaimed Lady Julian, seizing the hand 
of Mr. Scholefield, as he rose. " You will not believe that I'm so guilty 
a creature. I am innocent: indeed, indeed, I am innocent." 

"Therej there!" cried the general; "that will do: that will do. 
Don't be a fool!" he added, kissing her affectionately, as the tears 
sprang to his eyes. "There: now be calm— quite calm: let us have 
no more of this." 

Lady Julian, as they left the room, sank upon the couch, and when 
her maid had been summoned, they returned to the parlour. 

"I was told how it would be," said the general; "I was warned long 
ago." 

"Warned of what?" 

" Of jealousy being the fruit of the match. If I had fifty daughters, 
aoA they were all as ugly as the devil, I'd never again consent to the 
marriage of any one of them with any man twenty years older thah 
herself. Still I thought that Julian was really a man of honour." 

" And I think that he is so still. That he has hitherto loved Lady 
Julian fondly, I have had opportunities of knowing." 

"Well!" exclaimed the general; "we shall see! I'll go to him 
as soon as I feel fit to go. I'm only waiting until I get cool. 
It's of no use going to a man in a rage. But now, as regards thwl 
challenge. Will you promise to oommunicate to me the time and 
place of meeting ?" 

" I will." 

" That is all I fecjuife. This you promise, upon your honour as ^ 
gentleman?" 

"I do," 



228 SYLVESTER SOUND 

" Very good. That's settled. Let the affair go on. I shall hear 
from you in the course of the day?" 

"You shall." 

" No one shall ever know from me how I obtained the information, 
nor from whom." 

" I depend, of course, upon your secresy." 

'' You may do so witli confidence. Until this matter has been satis- 
factorily cleared up, I would not have Julian fall for the world. Fix 
any time you like, but let me know." 

** That there may be no mistake, I will see you myself." 

** That's better! Now, mind, I depend upon you." 

" And I depend upon you: for I would not, on any account, have that 
young man injured." 

Mr. Scholefield then lefl, and as he felt that the contemplated meet- 
ing would be harmless, his mind was more at ease, although he was 
6t^ apprehensive that the consequences to Sylvester would be, in a 
professional point of view, ruinous. Hoping, however, that these con- 
sequences might yet be averted, he hastened home, but before he 
arrived, Sylvester — whose anxiety had so much increased, that he 
found it impossible to i*emain there alone — ^had left, with the view of 
calling upon Tom, having previously written a note to Mr. Scholefield, 
stating where he was to be found. 

At this period, Tom was in practice for himself; and that practice, 
moreover, was extensive: for, notwithstanding he had the same peculi- 
arity of pronunciation as before, he had a high reputation for skill — a 
reputation which he had, by the legitimate exercise of his talents, 
acquired, and which experience and constant study enabled him to 
sustain. 

"What's the batter?" he exclaimed, as Sylvester entered his library; 
" why are you thus excited? Has adythidg very bobedtous occurred?" 

" Yes," replied Sylvester ; " I have been drawn into a mess." 

" A bess! Well, well, sit dowd add be calb; add let's see if we cad't 
draw you out of it. Dow thed, what is it's dature?" 

" You know Sir Charles Julian?" 

"Yes." 

" He declares that he saw me leave his house about three o'clock 
this morning." 

« WeU." 

" And his butler declares— and is, moreover, prepared to swear- 
that he saw me at that hour absolutely coming from Lady Julian's 
chamber!" 

" I say, old fellow," said Tom, shaking his head, significantly ; " a 
bedical bad, too! — ^a bedical bad!" 

" But it was not me whom they saw!" 

" It was dot?" 

" No: upon my honour!" 

" That's a blessidg. Where were you at that tibe?" 

« In bed." 

" Cad you prove that you were?" 



THE SOMNAMBULIST. 229 

" I can prove that I went home at twelve." 
" That's sobethidg, certaidly ; but that's dot edough." 
" It's impossible for me to prove that I was in bed at three !" 
"Which is awkward: very awkward. Well," he added, after a 
pause, " what has beed dode?" 

" In the first place he has cast Lady Julian off, and in the next he 
has sent me a challenge." 

<* Well! That's doidg busidess! Do you bead to go out?" 
" I have left the affair entirely in the hands of Mr. Scholefield." 
" Very good ; and what does he bead to do?" 
" I've not seen him since I left him with Sir Charles." 
" Do you bead to say that you have beed to speak to Sir Charles?" 
" I went in order to convince him that I was not the man ; but the 
moment he saw me, he seized me by the throat and tried to strangle me." 
"He did! Well, id that case, Syl, out you hist go! I dod't buch 
adbire this bode of settlidg batters; but as it is the odly bode pre- 
scribed by society, society bust establish adother before it cad expect 
that which is dow id existedce to be repudiated. But whed are you 
goidg to see Scholefield agaid?" 

" I expected to see him an hour ago! I waited at his house till I 
was tired of waiting, and then left a note stating that I should be here." 
" Well, old boy, you bust keep up your spirits! Let's have a glass 
of wide od the stredgth of it." 

" There he is!" exclaimed Sylvester, on hearing a knock. 
"That's the goverdor," said Tom. That's his kdock for a thousadd. 
Dow the questiod is, "svill it be wise to explaid all to hib?" 
" Wliy will it not?" demanded Sylvester. 

"Why, he has a thorough hatred of the practice of duellidg: he 
holds it id utter abhorredce ; add were it to cobe to his kdowledge that 
you had beed called out, I do believe that he would idduce you to suffer 
ady iddigdity rather thad go. The questiod therefore is, shall we tell 
hib or dot?" 

Before Sylvester had time to answer this question, the appearance of 
the doctor, ^vith Mr. Scholefield, sufiiciently proved it to be unnecessary, 
for he at once took Sylvester by the hand, and enjoined him to be tran- 
quil and firm. " I am," he added, " strongly opposed to this practice ; 
but, imder existing circumstances, the challenge must be accepted. 
We are all friends here ; but, of course, not a syllable must be said on 
the subject to any other party. I shall see you again in a few minutes. 
Do not leave till I return." 

" Well," said Tom, as the doctor left the room with Mr. Scholefield ; 
" if ady bad had sword that the goverdor would, udder ady circub- 
stadces, sadctiod the acceptadce of a challedge, I shoidd have said that 
that bad had cobbitted perjuiy. Why, he has heretofore dedoudced the 
practice of duellidg vehebedtly, as a barbarous, brutal, cowardly, cold- 
blooded practice. I have heard hib agaid add agaid codtedd that every 
bad who happeded to kill adother id a duel, whether he idtedded to do 
so or dot, was a burdererl I'll dever applaud hib for codsistedcy agaid. 
But I say, old fellow, whed does the thidg cobe off?" 



230 8II.VX8TSB flOUKD 

** I know nothing about the arrangeiiients.** 

" Well, but dod*t you kdow where you are to beet?" 

'' IVe not the 8%hte8t idea. Bfr. Scholefield has, on my pari, the 
entire arrangement df the affidr : beyond that I know nothing.** 

The doctor and Mr. Scholefield then retomed to the library, and 
when Tom — ^who entertained the kindliest feelings towards SyhFester, 
and who had made up his mind to embrace the earliest oppoitui|ity of 
giving information — had been taken aside, the doctor oommunioated 
something which induced him to abandon the oovirse he had meant 
to pursue. 

^ You will dine with me to-day?** observed the doctor, addressing 
Sylvester. 

*' I had much rather not. Fd rather dine alone. I do not feel that 
I am a coward; but I am of course thoughtful I have, moreover, n 
letter or two to write." 

''Write theb here, add dide with be thed,** said Tom. 

''vine where you please,** interposed Hr« Scholefield; "cmly let me 
know where I can find you.** 

" I will remain here dien. You will find me here. FU not leave the 
house till you return.*' 

" Very well,** said Mr. Scholefield. " Then Uiat*8 understood:*' and, 
on leaving the house with the doctor, he proceeded to keep his ^agage- 
ment with Sir William D*Almaine. 

" I don't think," observed Sylvester, on being left with Tom, ** that 
society has any right to place a man in this position. It appears to me 
to be dreadful, that the life of one man should be thus coolly staked 
against^at of another. Life against life ! and ^vith it all earthly hopes, 
prospects, and affections ! Henceforth, be the result of this afiair what 
it may, I'll never either give or accept a challenge. Were I guilty of 
the offence with which I am charged, I should not, of course, have the 
slightest reason to complain — ^although that would be, in effect, placing 
the accuser on the same footing as the accused : subjecting tlMS man 
who has been injured to the same consequences as the man by whom 
the injury has been inflicted — ^but, as I am innocent, I do think it 
monstrous that society should force me to peril my life for the satis- 
faction of him by whom I have been falsely accused." 

" Society does dot absolutely force you," said Tom. 

"Its influence has precisely that effect. Were I not to go out, it 
would denounce me as a coward." 

" Still it leaves you free to choose the alterdative." 

" And a pretty alternative it is I" 

"The paid idflicted by society's cedsure — add bore especially the 
cedsure of that portiod of society who take ibbediate cogdisadce of bat- 
tles of this descriptiod — depedds, id a great degree, upod a mad's sus- 
ceptibility. Sobe there are who despise it ; add I dod't kdow but such 
bed display as buch courage as they do by whob it is feared." 

" But a man in society — ^unless, indeed, he be independent of society 
— ^must go with society's stream. If he attempt to stem the tide thus 
established, he may struggle and struggle, and, with all his stru^^lix^ 



THE SOMNAMBULIST. 2dl 

be acarceLj able to keep up to the point from which he started ; while 
he who contentedly goes with the tide, glides smoothly along without an 
eiFort." 

" That's true, Syl, as far as it goes; certaidly they who go with the 
tide fide it the easiest way to get alodg, but it is extrebely questiodable 
whether it be at all tibes the wisest. Prejudices are to be reboved, for 
exabple, odly by oppositiod; frob oppositiod the whole of our great add 
glorious schebes, both political add social, have sprudg: oppositiod is 
9ie gerb of ibprovebedt: we bust have beed id a state of igdoradce the 
host profoudd had there beed doe such thidg as oppositiod. It is easier, 
doubtless, to go with the tide thad to oppose it ; but our object should 
be to divert the streab whed we fide that its course is perdicious." 

" But I am not in a position to turn the stream now against me." 

'^ Doe bad alive probably could do so alode. He bust, to be success- 
ful, have the idfiuedce add the exabple of a dubber to back hib.*' 

" Do you wish me, in this case, to be one of that number?" 

" Why, suppose that you were dow to leave towd — " 

" Had I fifty lives, and had to peril them all, I wotddn't do it." 

"It WB8 dot by idtedtiod to advise you to do it: I berely said stippose 
you were dow to leave towd, what — " 

" Nothing could justify such a step now. Independently of compro- 
mising one of my best friends, I should be for ever branded as a coward. 
No ! be the result what it may, I'll go through it." 

" Well," said Tom, whose sole object in discussing this subject was to 
prove that Sylvester in reality possessed that firmness for winch he had 
previously given him credit, " if that be your fixed deterbidatiod, we'll 
say doe bore about it. I'll dow, for a short tibe, leave you. You have 
letters to write, add I've a caU or two to bake : I shall dot be gode bwe 
thad ad hour." 

" Tom," said Sylvester, taking him by the hand, " I have one request 
to make ; it is this : that before you go out, you will pledge me your 
honour ^at you wiU give information of this afiair to no one. I ought 
not, I know, to have named the subject even to you; but, remember, I 
have done so in the most perfect confidence." 

Tom pressed his hand warmly and smiled, and having given the re- 
quired pledge, lefb him. 

Sylvester then sat down calmly to write an affectionate letter to Aunt 
Eleanor, to be delivered to her only in the event of his falling; and while 
he was thus engaged, Mr. Scholefield and Sir William were settUng the 
preliminaries of the meetiog. 

The general was also at this time engaged. He had, with ^e view 
of getlmg ^^ cool," been running up and down stairs, pacing the rooms 
with exiraoardinary rapidity, and hurling fierce denunciatums at the head 
of him whom he imagined had conspired to blast the reputation of his 
daughter; and when by these vehement means he had become, in his 
jud^ent, sufficiently " cool," he started ojff to have an interview with 
Sir Charles, in a state of intense perspiration. 

On his arrival, Sir Charles was '' not at home." He had given ia^ 
stmctions to be denied to all save Sir William D'Afanaine. But wbea 



the porter told the general that Sir Charles was not at home, the general 
looked at the fellow, and asked him if he knew who he was. '^ Atten- 
tion!" he shouted, as the porter muttered something in reply to him — 
** Announce me!'* And the porter, who in this his extremity soaroefy' 
knew how to act, did annoimoe him, and die general was erentually 
shown up. 

As he entered the room in which Sir Charles, rrho was still much 
excited, had been anxiously awaiting Sir William*s return, the geiieral 
walked stiffly up to the table, and, on taking a chair, sat immediately 
opposite Sir Chiurles, and looked at him for a moment with an e xpr es ai on 
of severity. 

'' Sir Charles — Sir Charles Julian !'' said he, at length, '' I am he r e— 
calm and cool, as you perceive— to demand an explanation.'* 

" General," returned Sir Charles, more in sorrow than in anger, " I 
have nothing to explain — nothing more than that which, I presume, you 
already know. That your daughter has dishonoured me, is lamentable, 
but true.'* 

"It is £sdse, sir— atrociously £Edsel" 

"Could I reasonably entertain a doubt upon the subject, I would 
abandon every feeling of suspici<m at once; but as her paramour was 
actually seen coming from her chamber; as my man let him out; and 
as I myself saw him leave the house as I iupproached it, doubt is impos- 
sible." 

" I don't believe a word of it— not a single wordf* 

"Of what?" 

" Of what! Why, of the statement you have made with the view of 
justifying your abandonment of my daughter." 

Sir Charles rang the bell, and when the servant appeared, he ordered 
Thompson up immediately. 

" I'U prove it," said he. " Unhappily, I can prove it. Thompson is 
my witness: interrogate him yoursetf." 

" Oh !" retorted the general, sarcastically, " I have not the slightest 
doubt of his having duly learned his lesson." 

** What do you mean to insinuate by that?** 

" We shall see — we shall see," returned the general, as the butler en- 
tered. "Now, sir," he continued, addressing Thompson fiercely, "I 
have to ask you a few plain questions— questions which, doubtless, 
you will have to answer upon your oath." 

" I will answer them now," said the butler, " as truly as if I were on 
my oath." 

" We shall see: we shall see, sir. Now, then. The very first ques'* 
tion I have to ask you is this: did Sir Charles, or did he not, sir, in- 
struct you to make the statement which you have made ai^ainst Lady 
Julian?" ^ ^ ^ 

" I have made no statement against Lady Julian." 

" No equivocation — ^no quibbling! I ask you a straightforward ques- 
tion, sir, and I expect that you will give me a straightforwai-d answer^ 
I ask you again, whether Sir Charles did or did not instruct you to make 
the statement which you have made against Lady Julian?" 



THB BOMKAMBULIST. 238 

*' And I answer again, that I have made no statement against her 
ladyship.^' 

" What! Have you not declared, and arc you not prepared to swear, 
that she is an adulteress?" 

" No," replied Thompson, " certainly not. I don't believe that she is : 
I never said that I believed it." 

" Why, how is this?" demanded the general of Sir Charles. " What 
am I to understand?" 

. "Pursue your own course. General Lloyd," returned Sir Charles. 
" Pray proceed in your own way. I've no wish to interfere with your 
mode of interrogation." 

" All I have stated," resumed Thompson, " is this: that about three 
this morning, I saw Mr. Sound coming slowly from the ante-room 
which leads to Lady Julian's chamber, and that I let him out of the 
house." 

"And are you prepared to swear to this statement?" 

"I am, sir: I am." 

"And will you also swear that you received no orders— no instruc* 
tions from Sir Charles — " 

"General Lloyd!" vehemently interposed Sir Charles, "I'll no longer 
sit here to be thus insulted. Thompson, leave the room. If," he added, 
when Thompson had left, "if you have any charge to bring against me, 
let it be brought at once plainly j that I may meet it. You have in- 
sinuated against me one of the basest and most abhorrent practices by 
which it is possible for a man to be disgraced. Do you mean to accuse 
me distinctly of such baseness?" > 

" I mean to accuse you of this. Sir Charles Julian — ^I am not a man 
to mince my words, or to shrink from the avowal of that which I feel 
—this it is of which I accuse you: I accuse you of having heartlessly 
conspired with that despicable wretch— whose oath I perceive is entirely 
at your command — to crush a woman, a fond, devoted fool of a woman, 
whom you know to be as virtuous and as pure as a child." 

"General Lloyd!" cried Sir Charles; "General Lloyd! you amaze me! 
Were any other man upon earth to charge me with anything so infa- 
mous, I should at once denounce him as a villain ! What right have 
you to insult me with so monstrous an accusation? What grounds have 
you— what real groimds- for believing me capable of acting so shame- 
ful a part?" 

"Sir Charles Julian, you amaze me I Were any other man upon 
earth to charge her with anything so infamous, I should at once 
denounce him as a villain 1 What right have you to insult her with so 
monstrous an accusation? What grounds have you — ^what real grounds 
for believing her capable of acting so shameful a part?" 

"I have evidence!" 

" You have: and I have evidence, too: evidence of a much purer 
caste. I have her evidence— upon which I'd stake my life— I have the 
evidence of him who is charged with her; I have my aum evidence, 
and I have yours — ^for I defy you to show that, since you imhappily mar- 
ried her, there has he&i anything in her conduct to justify suspicion!" 



2S4 nunanE aooiid 

*' There has not been: until this occurred, I fondly beheved Imt to be 
pure. She had my entire confidence : no man could have reposed nMie 
confidence in a woman, than I reposed in her; and even now tint she 

has betrayed it — ^ 

<'She has jmX betrayed it! Til not have it so." 

'' rd give up station, wealth, and all, to have it proved that she has 
not" 

''To have it proved that she has not! How can it be |Nroved? What 
woman can prove that she has not been false? You well know tiiat to 
be impossible. It is for you to prove that she has been and what 
proof have you of that?" 

At this moment Sir William D*Almauie was announced, and the 
general — ^who, inferring that the preliminaries had been s^tled, was 
anxious to receive the conmiunication from Mr. Schol^eld — rose on the 
instant, and having briefly said, " Sir Charles, I shall see you again on 
this subject," left tibie room. 

It was about four, when Sylvester received the intelligenoe that the 
DMeting was to take place that evening at seven, and the fixiuiees with 
which he received it, proved clearly that cowardice fonned no part c£ 
Ms oomposition. He was thoughtfol, it is true, but tranqniL There 
was no display of any reckless devil-may-care spirit: he viewed tiie 
affiur like a man who perceives the importance of the part he is about 
to perform, and although he was wiUing to converse calmly on the sub- 
ject, he was indisposed to treat it with levify. 

'' I say, old feUow," observed Tom, gaily, soon after they had sat 
down to dinner, " where's your appetite?^ 

" I have it still," replied Sylvester. 

^ Well, cobe! — get od! Do bad should go idto the field with ad ap- 
petite." 

'' I am doing very well I" 

'' I hope you'll do better whed supper-tibe cobes." 

" I hope so, too." 

" But, I say, old boy, I wish you'd take be with you." 

" That I apprehend would be rather incorrect." 

" Dot at aU! I bight go as your surgeodl" 

" I hope that no surgeon will be required." 

" Well, I hope so, too! But if I were to go, I dod't thidk that the 
practice I shoiild have would buch ibprove be! As to Sir Charles 
hittidg tfou! — that's quite out of the questiod. If he cad, why thed he 
cad hit a lath: day, I'd back ady mad who cad hit you at twelve paces, 
to go through the eye of a deedle. It's dot to he dode ! The idea is 
ridiculaas. Add thed as r^ards your hittidg hib !" 

" I shall not attempt it." 

" You'll dot ! What, do you bead to say thed, that you*ll fire id the air?" 

'* It is my intention to do so," 

" Thed of course you wish to kill hib!" 

« Certainly not." 

** Thed dod't attebpt to fire id the air. You are buch bore likely to 
hit bib if you do so, thad if you were to fire directly at his head." 



TBB SOMNAMBUUaT. 2S6 

"How so?" 

" You have had doe pistol practice?" 

" I have not." 

" You dever, perhaps, fired off a pistol id your life?" 

" I never did." 

" Well, thed, let be tell you this: if you fire at his head, you'll cut 
the groudd fi:om udder hib : you bay, perhaps, take oflf the sole of wud of 
bis boots, but the chadces are ted to wud id favour of your cuttidg up 
the turf ; whereas, if you bake ad attebpt to fire id the air, add you do 
but fire straight, you'll be as safe to put the bullet through his h^ad, as 
if the buz^le of the pistol were placed betweed his eyes ; for, of course, 
you'll have to deal with hair triggers, add if you have, and you ram the 
pistol, of it goes sobe codsiderable tibe before you kdow where you are. 
Look at that pier-glass : it seebs at twelve paces to be remarkably easy 
to hit; but fire at it — ^you shall do so if you like after didder — ^fire right 
at it: you bay kdock the kdob off* the todg*— you bay sbash the fedder — 
you bay crack the hearth-stode, or bake a shall hole id the rug — ^but 
you'll fide, udless you take a host burderous aib, that you'll dot go dear 
the glass. The buzzle of a pistol, id the hadd of a device, is p^^ctly 
certaid to drop: just try it after didder," 

" I've no desire to do so." 

" Well, but thed you will see the effect !" 

" My dear fellow, I've no ambition to become a duellist. I shall be 
irifiAe to fire as well as I wish to fire, for I'll take especial caie that before 
I touch the trigger, the pistol shaJl point directly upwards. I have been 
grossly insulted by Sir Charles, it is true; but it is also true that when 
he insulted me, he imagined that I had seriously injured him. It was 
an eiTor on his part: he had been deceived. I would not deprive any 
man of life because he happened to be labouring under a mistake.'^ 

" But Sir Charles would deprive you of life." 

" If he should do so, the crime wiU be his, not mine.*' 

" You will be, eved id that case, particeps cribidis. You kdow — ^you 
have, at all evedts, a right to a«sube — ^that his object is to kill you; add 
yet you voludtarily place yourself id a positiod to be kiUed ! The cribe 
would ^ot be cobbitted were you dot to go out: you have id your owd 
hadds the power to prevedt it, add if you do doty you are to all idtedts 
add purposes ad accessory." 

" So are you— so is your father — and so is Mr. Scholefield ! We are 
all accessories, in that sense: we all have the power to prevent it* But 
at the same time we all know that society would hold the exercise of 
that power to be dishonourable*" 

" fl; thed, society thus force$^ a bad out> I codtedd that he is justified 
id firidg at his oppodedt* If I were to go out to-borrow, add I kdew 
that the object of by adtagodist was to kUl be, I should fire as he fired, 
add if I killed hib I should call it justifiable hobicide. He who does 
dot idtedd to fire at his oppodedt has doe right to go out at all. I cad 
ibagide a case id which a bad would be justified id goidg out add firidg 
id tibie air : for exabple, that of a bad who had deeply icyured his fciedd, 
add who felt it deepl]^ add wl¥>. ymbsA ta give a tacit wkdowhdg^ 



286 STLVESTER SOUND 

bedt of the wrodg he had idflicted ; but id a case like yours, a bad has 
doe right to go add stick hibself up like a target, add say to his oppo- 
dedt, id effect, * Fire away! I have dot idjured you: dor shall I fire at 
you. I cabe out edtirely for your satisfactiod; dierefore kill be if you 
cad.* It isd^t a fair positiod for a bad to be placed id. It is, id lact, 
adjrthidg hut a fair positiod.** 

** The position," said Sylverter, " is certainly unfair; and one pdint 
which you have suggested, will be sufficient to induce me not to fire as 
I intended. Fll not fire in the air lest it should be considered a tacit 
acknowledgment of guilt. No, TU fire on one side." 

" Id that case, the secodds had better look out. K 3rou dod't bide, 
you'll burder wud of theb." 

Sylvester smiled ; and from this time till six Tom did all in his power 
to amuse him, and when Mr. Scholefield arrived with the chaise, he 
found him as calm and as firm as ever. 

« You'll dot let be go thed?" said Tom. 

"I should like you to go," returned Sylvester; "but of course it 
would not be exacUy correct." 

" Not exactly l" observed Mr. Scholefield. 

" I cotdd hadg od behidel But Fll dot do that. I suppose you bust 
have all the fud to yourselves. Adieu, old fellow! rU wait at hobe 
for you. Drive back here ibbediately all is over. Adieu!*' 

Sylvester pressed his hand with warmth, and having said calmly, 
— " Tom— God bless you!" he joined Mr. Scholefield, who was appre- 
hensive still, and they entered the postchaise together. 

The meeting had been arranged to take place at Wormwood Scrubs, 
and on their way Mr. Scholefield was constantly looking back. This 
Sylvester ascribed to an anxiety to ascertain if Sir Charles were behind 
them ; and when he heard him order the postboy to drive more slowly, 
he suggested that Sir Charles might be ahead. 

" He may be," replied Mr. Scholefield; " I have no doubt he is." 

He, nevertheless, continued to look anxiously behind, until suddenly 
his countenance assumed a gay expression, and he ordered the postboy 
to drive on fast. 

On their arrival at the appointed spot, they found Sir Charles on the 
ground, and Mr. Scholefield, on alighting, went up to Sir William, with 
whom he for some time conversed. Everything bearing the semblance 
of an arrangement was of course out of the question, and as such was 
the case, the pistols were loaded and the ground was measured, but just 
as the principals were about to be placed, the general, with two ofiicers, 
sprang upon the ground, exclaiming, " There are your prisoners!" 

" What right, sir," demanded Sir Charles, fiercely, " What earthly 
right have you to interfere?" 

"T\Tiat right!" returned the general. "Independently of my com- 
mon right as a man, I have the right of a father, firmly resolved to vin- 
dicate the honour of his child." 

" Can the honour of youi' daughter be vindicated thus?" 

"We shall see: we shall see. It never could be vindicated were you 
now to fall. No, no. Sir Charles ; I can't spare you yet*" 




rj7/^' /.///^/^ W/^/V/ 




/ // ,j/^//r/' //v4f //////7jc/^^/./f/. 



THE SOMNAMBULIST. 237 

"From whom did you obtain your infonnation?" 

"Did I not hear Sir William D'Almaine announced? and did you 
conceive that I was totally blind?" 

Sir Charles looked at Sir William, and evidently inferred that that 
announcement had been the cause of the general's interference. 

" This," resiuned the general, addressing the officers, " this is Sir 
Charles Julian, and this is Mr. Sylvester Sound. You have seen what 
they contemplated: you know for what purpose they have met. Arrest 
them." 

The officers bowed; and as one of them followed Sir Charles to his 
carriage, the other accompanied Sylvester and Mr. Scholefield; and 
when the general had rejoined the friend with whom he came, and 
whom, despite his anxiety to conceal himself, Sylvester discovered to be 
the doctor, they returned to town, and went at once before a magistratei 
who bound the parties over to keep the peace. 



CHAPTER XXVra. 

PIER-GLASS PRACTICE. 



That evening Sylvester supped with Tom, and on being urged to 
stop there all night, he, having no anxiety about returning to his cham- 
bers, consented; and after sitting up till one, conversing gaily about 
the occurrences of the day, went to bed pretty nearly exhausted. 

Tom went to bed too; but as the night-bell rang soon afterwards, and 
he was summoned to assist in augmenting the surplus population, he 
intimated the interesting fact to " Jib'* — ^whom he had seduced irom the 
doctor's — and left the house. 

Jib was a most especial &vourite of Tom, and had, in consequence, 
become a great man: quite a confidential c^rd. Whatever Jib said in 
that house was law. He was the superior swell of the establishment. 
Nothing coidd be done without Jib. He was a species of domestic 
oracle, and as he felt — and very naturally — ^that he knew what was 
what, about as well as any man in the realm, he wouldn't allow the 
" beddals" to advance a syllable in opposition to his views. Whatever 
he wished to have done, was done, and he'd have it done, too, in a tidy 
style; and while he had an extremely deep sense of his own importance, 
he felt it correct to look fierce! 

When, therefore, he received Tom's important conununication, he 
knew as well as any man in England what it meant, and having 
grunted and yawned, and eventually turned out, he went down to fasten 
the door. 

While returning, however, he was struck—struck with amazement: 
paralysed-^perfectly paralysed, on beholding a tall figure slowly de- 



Ms STLVBtttB 0omn> 

soending the stairs, with a pistol in one hand which S&y didn't see, and a 
▼ery dim light in the other. 

Jib was silent, breathless, and ^Jbe^— oh, how he looked at the 
figure. His ejres were nearly out of his head, and, while his hands 
were uplifted, and his fingers were extremely wide apart, his lips de- 
scribed a perfect circle, and his knees smote each other, as it each 
patella wished to knock the other out. 

As the figure — which looked very ghastly -*-approiioh^, Jib re- 
treated—correctly, retreated ; and when he had got as &r as he oouid 
get, without going through the street-door, he saw the figtiro'^^which 
treated him with the utmost contempt, taldng no more notice <^ hhn 
than if he had been nothing--4talk into the dining-room as codUy as if 
he absolutely paid the rent and taxes. 

Hie poeidon Jib occupied then was awkward* The figiirs— *>whioh 
of course he believed to be a ghost, fyr Jib's fidth in silp«maturml ap- 
pearances was firm — ^had left the dining-room door wide open, and situ- 
ated as he was then, nature swindled Um into the belief that he must 
of necessity pass this door, which appeared to him, then, to have an 
unexampled appetite. It never, for a moment, struck him that he 
might open the front door, and let himself out. No ; he felt that he 
must pass that door, and how to manage it he couldn't exactly tell. He 
never before felt so much confused. His intellects were usually clear 
enough — ^he had, at all events, been accustomed to flatter himself that 
they were commonly as clear as those of any man in Europe — but at 
that particular period they really did appear to be completely upset. He 
couldn't tell what to make of it. He felt very ill. A faintness came 
over him, and yet he was conscious — ^perfectly conscious— ^t least of 
this, that the figure was then in the room. 

" Courage !'* he exclaimed, confidentially to himself, and the word 
seemed to have a great effect upon his nerves ; for he stood upright 
boldly and breathed again, and absolutely made up his mind to pass the 
door ; but no sooner had he taken the first courageous step, flian he 
heard the report of a pistol and fell. 

That he had been woimded, he firmly believed: where^ he 
coiddn't tell ; nor did he much care then to know, but that he had 
a wound somewhere about his person, was in his view abundantly 
clear. 

" Mur^r r cried the cook, at this moment, above. " James !— -master ! 
mur^r*/" 

The Soimd of a voice reinspired Jib, and he felt quite valiant again 
and rose, and actually darted past the dining-room door, and rushed Up 
stairs in a fit of desperation to the cook, who, conceiving him to be some 
other gentleman, backed in and fastened the door. 

"Cook, cook!" he cried, "cook!" 

"Who's there?" she demanded, for she did not immediately recognise 
his Voice. 

"Mel me! — James! — ^me!" he replied; "let me in." 

At any other time cook would not have done this; but her character- 
istic delicacy was overcome by fear. She wanted protection: she knew 



THE SOMN AUBULI8T. 

she did; and, therefore, having thrown a flannel petticoat round her^ she 
adjusted her night-cap, and opened the door. 

'^Grood heavens!" she exclaimed; ^'what on earth is the matter?" 

"Horror!" cried Jib, with an appalling expression; "IVe seen— I've 
seen — a ghost !" 

Cook shuddered and echoed, " A ghost 1" 

"A ghost!" 

"My gracious!" exclaimed cook; "where?" 

" Some water— some water," said Jib, " I feel faint." 

And so he did; and looked faint; and cook gave him some water, and 
wiped the cold perspiration off his forehead with a towel. And Jib 
drank the water, and felt a little better; and when cook had urged him 
to tell all he knew, he proceeded in trembling accents thus:— 

" Cook ! heaven and earth, what a sight it was!—" 

" Good gracious !*' 

"I went down to fasten the door after master—-" 

"I thought I heard the night-bell." 

"Well, rd no sooner effected this accomplishment, than what should 
I see — Oh! horror! — ^" 

"Good heavens preserve us!" 

" I saw — ^I beheld — a long, lanky, pale, horrid, ghastly^ooking ghost, 
with eyes starting right out of its head, coming towards me." 

"Oh! my goodness!" 

" Well — I never was a coward, and so I wasn't then — ^I stood and 
watched it, and where should it go, but deliberate into the dining-room, 
where it is now!" 

" Heaven forgive us aU our sins !" 

" Well, there I stood — ^I didn't move — ^when presently somethitig went 
hang! just like the tremendious roar of d cannon." 

"Yes, that's what I heard." 

"Well, just after then you called out, and as I knew you was 
frightened, I came up to ease your mind." 

" That was very good of you. What I should have done if you hadn't, 
James, heaven only knows. I'm sure I should have gone right out of 
my senses. Have a little more water; you look very pale." 

" The smell of the brimstone made me faint." 

"Well, I thought I smelt brimstone — ^I smell it now! — dreadftil! — 
don't you?" 

"I do— I do!" sighed Jib, and fainted. 

Of all the horrid feelings by which the human breast is animated, 
those which cook now inspired were perhaps the most horrid. 

"James — James!" she exclaimed, " oh! for goodness sake! — James ! 
— ^there's a good man! — James! — Oh! heaven have mercy upon me!" 

Susan, who slept in the next room, and who, although she had been 
awakened by the cry of murder, dared not venture out before, no sooner 
heard these fitful exclamations than, prompted by an extremely natural 
species of curiosity, she came to the door and peeped. 

Was it possible— could it be possible! There was James on the bed- 
Mdep suj^ported by cook, Hi^ bead was restiag on ber bosom, and she 



S40 "* •nnnnr'toMD 

WM dufiag Im tamplet. HeJbad nothing oH Mife Ut tnmibam ihd^^i^ 

and she had nothing on but her night-dress — £h» ^tloMit»'l&at9lig 
slipped oft The aoefte was awful. Soaaniims Mhacfcoii. -^Slffi-aoiildn't 
have tlionght it She couldn't have believed ft.? 'filial «toi/Ul/f'lia?e 
believed it, if she hadn*l: hertalf seen itwilii licv.owniajc«l i' ( '' '1^ ' 
'* Hemf* she cried, and bounced into llie imn* -:.<•« ^ * .\*i^iA 
'* Oh! Susan," sighed cook; '' I'm so ghid youM tbme. ^ ''^••'' 
SHsan,with a sarcastie amilet and, at ihewMtiiaai ttsthklg Iket"d2id 
contemptuously, replied, " Very pretty: verg fveltyv npaa myS^toAT'-"* 
"Oh! Susan—" ^y " ''•'*A 

" Don't talk to me. Master ahaU know of all this, if I Uvti"*'- ^ ^ 
"Bat, Susan — '' < ''I'lijil 

" ril have no communication with soeh a creatnrer ' >- ' '^ ' '' ■ --^ 
"WeU, but hear me?v '" i»^ •'» * 

" rU not hear a word, ma'am. No, ma'am; I'll not btoiaatt wMNflff 
ma'am, to talk to you« Yon oog^ to be. aiAomafl <^'yaUriM^-^<m 
ought! Fine doings, indeed. But master shall know, and eithti^'Vbii'' 
or Ileave to-morrow morning." ■ "' i;'' 

" Susan, ti;i7/ you hear me?" ' •;•:■'// 

"No, rU not," Implied Susan, with a bok of disdain, aiid, Itteving^ 
sufficiently extended her nostrils, bounced out of the room in a high' 
state of virtuous indignation. .. i : . ./» •-' 

Cook now felt the extreme delicacy of her positioD, but h^Vf#y tbst 
object was to bring Jib round. This she tried to effect bjf alt^the 
means at her command, but for some time her «ffiM*t8 were qJutb'ikA-' 
availing. Had bo been absolutely dead, he couldn't have aj^^dar^ 
more inanimate : indeed, at one time she thought he had de|>arted = tlih '- 
life, and began to turn the probable consequences over in her miiid; '• 
As a dernier reasort, however, she seized the ewer, which happened' t6 
be verv nearly full, and, having violently dashed the whole b6dy'of 
water in his face, Jib struck out, and from that moment, consciousness 
gradually returned. ■ ' ■ ••• ^ 

"Where am I?" he faintly inquired at length, looking round 'with 
the aspect of a most unhappy wretch, ibr the water had obUteviiled 
every trace of the characteristic respectability of his appearance^ ^^' Is - 
that you, cook?'' 

"Oh, Jame^i James," replied cook, widi a sigh; " you havey I iku^; 
mined me— ruined me for ever !" 

" Ruined you!" exclaimed Jib, making an efioct which rendered his - 
restoration aimoet complete; " how, how have I ruined you?^ • 
" Oh, James," replied cook; " Suaan Jhas been here-^-**" . • ^ 
" She has!" cried Jib; "and saw m«^" ■ ■■** " 

" Yes; and called me all the names she oouH lay her tongue to." •' 
"Oh, I feel very ill. But I'll soon settle that.> i-She is jeaiousT, I 
suppose — she's jealous^ > B]ii^ .the ghost, cook<i—4iow. about! the ghoit? 
Have you seen, i|?" : i 

" No, it hasn't be^ ber^j" i i . I 
" Then it's there." 
" Where?" demanded cook, looking round willi a feeUng of harrbi*.' 



THB SOlOrAlCBVLIST. 241 

"In the dining-room— the dining-room: not here — ^not here: but 
there where I left it." 

^' Heaven be praised. If it were to come here, I should sink." 

" Hark r exclaimed Jib. 

" How you frighten me. What is it«— what do you hear?" 

" Listen ! Don't you hear that?" 

"That. No. What?" 

They both listened with anxiety the most intense, and, while listen- 
ing, they heard the bell ring. 

" That's master," said Jib; " he's come back." 

" Then run down, and let him in at once," said cook. 

Run down. Yes ! Nothing could be much more easily said, but 
Jib, at the time, felt that he couldn't do it. 

" Tm afraid," said he, " of that nasty brimstone. I know it will 
overcome me: I'm quite sure it will." 

" But I don*t smell it half so much now. In fact, I don't smeli 
it at aU!" 

" Not smell it. Oh, it's enough to knock you do\vn." 

" Well, but what's to be done? Master must be let in. There you 
are!" she added, as the bell rang again. " He'll be in a passion pre- 
sently." 

" Cook," exclaimed Jib; " I can't help it!" 

" Well, but somebody must go, you know. / can't go." 

" Nor can I," replied Jib; " it's quite out of the question." 

The bell rang again, and with increased violence. 

" I knew how it would be," observed cook ; " I knew he'd soon get in 
a passion. He'll pull the bell right down presently. You'll see if he 
don't." 

" I wish he would," said Jib; " and then I couldn't hear it." 

" Well, but what's to be done? You know something must be done." 

" Something must be done ; but what, I don't know. Did you name 
the ghost to Susan?" 

" Not a word." 

" That's lucky. Perhaps sheHl go, for I don't feel well — indeed, Fm 
anjrthing hut well. I wish you'd go and ask her?" 

Cook didn't at all like to leave the room ; but as the bell rang again 
with greater violence still, and the case became, therefore, most urgent, 
she offered to compromise the matter by going with Jib, to which com- 
promise Jib most reluctantly consented. 

They accordingly went, with trembling steps, to Susan's door, and 
having looked round anxiously, knocked. 

"Who's there?" demanded Susan. 

" Me, Susan— -only me," replied cook. 

"What do you want?" 

"Open the door: there's a good girl, open the doer." 

" I sha'u't! I'll do nothing of the sort. 111 have nothing at all to 
say to any such creature. But master shall know all about it, mind 
th«t1" . 

*« Will yc^ go littd fet Mm in1>" 

t 



d43 BttTWfn fotjva 

<<M«go-*ine? Wh^8 your fellow? Let bun go: /'« not gch^the 
ideor, indeed 1 Let him go— that is, if you can spare hinu" 

'^ Tou wrong vm^ Susan— 4Qdeed, you do.*' 

" I don't care a pin about what you say, ma'am^VU not go." 

The bell rang again, and eontinued to ring, for the wire sawed to and 
fro with unexampled violence ; and as it was then dear that SuMn was 
inexorable, cook actually offered to go down with Jib! 

" Why it's madness you utter!" exclaimed Jib— "madness! If you 
were to see it, you'd be frightened to death." 

'' It wo'n't harm me, James: it wo'n't harm me. Come, comeT'«4)e a 
man!" 

!%]• i^peal to Jib's manhood awakened his courage, and seissing the 
ewer — ^the only available weapon in the room-^be inspired a litfie of 
the spirit of desperation, and descended, closely followed by cook. 

As they passed the dining-room. Jib was amaised, but at the same 
time relieved, on finding the door closed ; but they had no sooner possed, 
than Tom, whose patience Avas exhausted, thundered at the street door 
with such startling violence, that, as the sound reyerber^ted, cook flew 
up-stairs, leaving Jib in the hall alone. 

Having recovered those Acuities which had thus been astonished, Jib 
nerved himself once more, and opened the door ; and as Tom very angrily 
entered, he was about to tell him exactly what he me^t, but he no 
sooner saw Jib'9 deplorable aspect, than his anger wa« wholly supplanted 
by mirth. 

" Why you biserable udhappy lookidg wretch^^ cried Tom, " what 
have you beed at? Puttidg your head udder the pubp, or dividg idto 
the water-butt?" 

"Oh!" said Jib, " I've seen a ghost!" 

" You've seed a what?" 

"A horrid ghost!" 

" What had you for supper last dight?" 

" Bread and cheese sir." 

"Dothidgelse?" 

" Oh, yes : I did have a little bit of pork." 

"Of course you did! Your stobach's out of order: you've beed 
dreabidg." 

" No, it isn't that, sir: oh, no, it isn't that. I saw it as plain, sir — as 
plain as could be." 

" Did you really! Well, add what did it say? It threw a bucket of 
water over you, I suppose, to begid with." 

" No, sir: nor did it say a word; but I saw it stalk horridly into that 
room : and it's my belief fiiat it's in there now." 

" Well, let's go add have a look at it, Jib. Let us see what it's bade of." 

Jib duly delivered the lamp to Tom, and allowed him to enter the 
room alone ; but the moment he entered, Tom, perceiving the pier-glass 
shattered to atoms, exclaimed-— 

^^ Hollo! why, what's all this!" with so much veliemence, that Jib, 
who imagined the ghost was there still, started off, and rushed up stairs 
with feelings of horror. 



" Whew are yon <^ too?" cried Tom, *^ Jib, what dp you bead. Do 
you hear? Jibl" 

" Ye-e-e-yes, sir!" replied Jib, almost unable to iiiter itxQ wprd. 

" Cobe dowd, thed. What do you bead by ruddi(}g away id that 
state of bide? Cobedowd,sir,ibbediately! Do you hear be? CobedOwd," 

" Oikj sir," replied Jib, trembling, '* I dare not." 

" Dare dot! Dod't tell be that you dara dot: aobe dowd this bobedt, 
I desire you!" 

Jib, who felt very ill indeed, and who also felt that he mmt go down, 
descaidBd anxiously, and with great deliboration, while Tom mone nu- 
nutely examined the room. 

'^Dow, Jib, what's all this about?" demaii4^ TiQm» Vfllfyfiif aogrily; 
" who broke this glass?' 

" Glass, sk! What glass?" 

"What glass! why, this glass!" 

" Oh!" exclaimed Jib, as he fixed his eyes upoj^ it, ^' it is broke, in- 
deed.'' 

" Well, how did you do it?" 

" Do it, sir? I didn't do it." 

^^ By whob was it dode?" 

" Oh, sir, it must have been the ghost!" 

Tom, for a moment, looked at him fiercely, and then exclaimed-r— 

" Wliy, you idsoledt, lyidg, darrow-bided, idcobprehedsible dodkey, 
what do you bead? What do you take be for? Ad idiot? Hare you 
beed fool edough to swiddle yourself idto the belief that I should take id 
that, you codsubbate ass?" 

" If it wasn't done by the ghost, sir; I don't know who did it. But 
it was the ghost: depend upon it, sir, it was the ghost." 

" That you bead to say you wish be to believe?" 

" It must have been the ghost, sir; / didn't do it!" 

" You bead to stick to that?" 

" It's the truth." 

"That's edough! Pack up your traps add be off. I'll have doe 
bad id by house id whob I'b udable to codfide. I have hitherto re- 
posed the utbost codfidedce id you, but dow that I fide you cad tell the 
bost ibpudedt falsehoods, that codfidedce is gode : therefore, start," 

^'Indeed, sir, this isn't a falsity: it isn't, sir; as true aa I'm standing 
here alive !" 

^* What!" exclaimed Tom, indignantly. 

" Cook knows it isn't, sir I Cook heard the noise!" . 

"Whatdoise?" 

"The noise of the ghost, sir; which was, for all the world, as if 
heaven and earth was a coming together." 

"Is cook id bed?" 

" I think not, sir. She came down with me to let you in; but when 
you knocked loud, she ran away fi-ightenedw'^" 

" Tell her to cobe dowd agaid thed. I'll have this affair cleared up 
Hi wudce; add rebebber, udiess it be clieared np sat&lfactorily, off you 
go. Dow, tell cook I wadt her, add dod't be lodg abOiit it/^ ^ 'v; 

s 2 



244 8TI-VE8TER SOUKD 

Jib— whom the idea of leaving appalled — ^was not long ^boufc it: he 
went up to cook, who slipped on her dress, and chan;^ her cap, and 
came down in a singularly short space of time,- but markl followed bj 
Susan, whose deep indignation had had the effect of keeping her bn^the 
gill vive. 

'' Cook,"^ said Tom; '^ I do dot care buch about the glass: by chief 
object is truth, to which I expect you will adhere. Dow, what do jou 
kdow about this?" 

** All I know, sir, about it, is this : that I heard a tremendious noise 
like an earthquake, and got up, and called out, and found! it was a 
ghost." 

** Did you see this — ghost?" 

" No, sir; I did*nt see it exactly; but James did." 

" How do you kdow that?" 

" He told me so." 
, "Is that all you kdow?" 

" I don't know nothing more, sir." 

^' But I do," said Susan; *' and a good deal more, too." 
. "Well! what do yoM kdow?" 

" Why, sir, I know this; Fll not live in any house where there's such 
goings on." 

"What do you bead?" 

" I mean, sir, that /heard a noise, but a very different sort of a poise 
from that of an earthquake; and when I came out to ascertain what it 
was, tuho should I see but Mister James comfortably sitting on Mmia 
Cook's bed, and she a cuddling of him with very great affection.'* 

"Cook," said Tom; "I fadcied that you were a strictly virtuous 
persod." 

" And so I am, sir. I'll defy the world to prove that I am not. This 
envious creature's jealous, sir; that's it." 

" Jealous 1" cried Susan. 

" Yes, jealous! But if you will but listen, sir — " 

"I feel boudd to do so." 
. " Then, sir, TU tell you exactly how it all occurred. I heard a noise, 
asTi "before said, and called out to know what it was, Avhen James ran up 
and told me he'd just seen a ghost, I was frightened of course — very 
frightened — so frightened, I didn't know Avhat to do ; and as James felt 
ill and wanted some water, I gave him some, and he sat on my bed. 
We then talked about, the ghost, and while we were^ talking, James 
faintiBd away, and it was as I was trying to bring him round that Susan 
entered the room and saw us." 

" You have spoken the truth, cook?" suggested Tom. 

" t have, sir, iiideed. Fcl repeat the woms if they were the last I liad 
to speak." • ' ' 

" He faidted,-you say? absolutely faid tod?" 

" |Ie did, sir; and I cdttl^ii't hfih^ him to until I'd thrown the whole 
jug of water over him.'* 

" It's all very fine,* x)bserved Susan, wl>o was not all satisfied; " yetjf 
fine, indeed."'' • *" ' ' > ' ■ . 




\5M"(\Ml W 



r- 



/ 



TH£ SOMNAMBULIST. US 

I* This affair/* said Tom, " shall be ftdly idvest%Jated ibbediately jrfter 
breaklfliist; add if I fide that ypur statebedts are false, dot wild of you 
shall rebaid id tlie house. Gro to bed." 

They then retired to their respective rooms with manifest feelings of 
dissatisfaction: indeed, so dissatisfied were they, that neither Jib, cook, 
nor Sus^, could 50 to sl^p again. 

While at breakfast that morning, Tom related the whole affair to 
Sylvester, and the relation was productive of a most hearty liaugh. 

^I i^ght as well have had a shot at the glass yesterday !** said Syl- 
vester; ** I couldn't have shattered it more." 

" I dod't believe you could have hit it at all," returned Tom. " Try 
it doAv. You cacTt do ady bore dabage. Where are ihe pistols?*' 

"I took them up with me last night." , " 

" Thed we'll have theb dowd at wudce," s^d Tom, rihgiDg ipie.bell; 
" you'll thed see the effect of pier-glass practice. .Jib>* he a(Med, \yhen 
Jib had appeared, "you'll see a case id the roob id which Mr. <^udd 
slept: bridg it dowd." 

Jib, who Avas particularly active that morning, very soon produced 
tj^ case ; when l^ylvester — ^who had the key in his pwtet^unliKsked 
it, and took out one of the pistols. 

" Dow," said Tom, " aib at the bull's-eye: there's a capital Avud.esja-" 
bUshed. Staddhere." '",,. 

" '*! The cap's off," said Sylvester, on cocking the pistol. , 

' ^^t'l^r cried Tom; " I wudder how that got dff. Herd's adbtW^ 

Sylvester, having put on the cap, pointed steadily at the buirs-eyc 
tfidi<|a4p4» but, on pulling the trigger, the pistol flashed i^ the pan. 
' ^'^Hfollof' cried Tom. "Well, these are pretty pistols to go out with ,^ 
.^f^^taidl]^. Why, where did you get theb?" 

''*^8cholefield got them. I don't know where." ^ . 

"He who sedt theb out ought io be ashabed^oi- hjlisiplf, , japw^ver, 
try adother cap." . , * 

Another cap was tried, and the result was the sa^ne^ , / . V . < 

V.Wb3{|",criQd Tom, "what's thei beadidg; of tl^s?, .'thjye bi^ be 
sobeihidg ^wTodg, Look herel" he added ; "the tiidg Isd^t ioiid«d 
af-all'l*" ■•-^^•- :o. TW:. ->...■ . . .•:, 

: '^^ Not leaded!" ' "'.."'. .' ;,:.'. ;. ...V ^ ''./,'!'' V.!^;;r;;ii 

"Doe. lib afraid there was foul play codt^tpl^te^jber^." ' * "'' 

"1^ the other loaded?" ', . ^K, ! . m. . . " V 

"I^t'? ie^. Yes; that's S^l rigtt edoiigh. "WTJere ^hese'the pi8t(?b, 
you were to have foiight with?" .. ! ' .^ 

"Yes." „ ., ._ . , ;,, ,,.,;./ '\\ ;;.;; .'■■ ■.;;;; ". ^ 

"Thed that's tie\ww4 wljdch ji(pi4.were'jto hayejtacl. Sghojcfield 
ought to have seed to it. ' Certaidly, h'e'iiught to have seed thai ijiU was 

right." .,.^,,^. ..; ^ . . . .^. . . ^...^. , ;:;•. 

. "J doi^lt suppose he,kifQwa imjiljqh abi^^ iM^ 7 .\ ' 

'^Probably dot; but lloe bad should udaertake toflptliat of wniph 
heis igd^radtj eqpecju^ly id a )batter id ^hic}i.li,fe is jflyolyecl.'*' . ^ .'' 

'^ I beheve'thatne scarcely knew what lie was doing: te appea^iped.^ 
be very much excited throughout.** 



2-1^1 8TLTE9T£ll SOUKD 

** If is I'xciU'Uflt, tliftl, to which this drglect biisfc be ascribed; but 
it (■•■rt.'iirlly was a bo&t lulixirdodablu trick od the imrt of Sir Williab 

" !)•► yrm think it was done intentionally, then?'' 

" It lonks v«iy biich liko it." 

" Mil! i> hv at all the surt of man to act so dishonourably?" 

" Wliy, irldi'iMfMcdtly of beidg a duellist, he is a gabbler, ad id the 

li".l..iir of ji iraMiK.T Fvc d«jt buch faith/' 
" I siipiMwc tliat I can do notliing in it?" 
*• IM iMfltiod it to Stholifichl. But I dod't thidk that, as the batter 

h:\< fi rliidatvd, J &i]iouId take ady farther dotice of it." 
'* Will, I must say that it was a most imfair proceeding." 
** IMfaii-r cried Turn — " the drsigd was biutlei-ous !" 
'I'lie i)iaitol» WL'ie then restored to the case, and shortly aftenvards 

Sylvester ])rocee<lcd to his chambers, where he found a messenger from 

J^ii* Cliiules's attorney, by whom he was scrrcd with a notice of action. 



CILVPTER XXIX. 

SYLVESTER REVISITS COTHEHStONE GRANGE. 

Five years! What a variety of changes take place in five years! 
WJiat aeriel castles arc built but to fall: what hopes spring up and 
l)l<j<'iii Imt to witlier: what fears arc inspired but to prove that they 
are Iwiseless: what ])eautiful bubbles arc bloAvn but to biu^t. 

Tli(! great majority of mankind lind the space of five yeai's rich in 
incident ; but there are individuals to whom, dm-ing five years, scarcely 
an incident worth recording occurs. For example, nothing of impor- 
tance had occurred to eitlier Aunt Eleanor or the reverend gentleman. 
They were, moreover, in precisely the same relative positions as they 
were live years before. It may have been imagined that they might 
have managed matters between them by this time ; and so, indeed, they 
might, but they didn't. lie had obtained her consent, it is true, and 
continued to visit her daily ; nay, he had even on three occasions spoken 
of the contemplated " happy day ;" but he never could get her to name 
that day, until just before those events occurred which have been de- 
tailed in the preceding chapter. 

Nor had anything of importance transpired in the village. It is true 
that the bam which stood opposite the cottage had been, about twelve- 
months before, newly thatched: it is also tnie that Obadiah had twice 
made an assignment, marvelling how it could possibly be that, while all 
around him were prosperous, he should be constantly involved — some- 
times ascribing it to the measm-es of " Bobby Peel," and sometimes to 
those <xf'' Johnny Russell"— but beyond this, nothing worth recording 
took place. 



TH£ S0MKAHBUU6T. 247 

When, therefore, Sylvester— after having placed his defence to the 
action in the hands of the doctor's attorney — ^went down to Cotherstonei 
with the view of explaining all that had occurred before the case shotdd 
appear more pointedly in the papers, he found nothing there to strike 
him with any great degree of astonishment. But conceive the amajee-- 
ment of his aunt and her reverend Mend, when he stated to them the 
&ct of his being the defendant in an action for criminal conversation! 
Conceive the horror ^vith which they heard that statement made, and 
the relief which they experienced, when he wound up all by a solemn 
declaration of his innocence! Nothing could be more touching, or 
more sincere, than the expressions of their belief in this solemn declata- 
tion. And yet, to them, how extraordinary it appeared that precisely 
the same thing which occurred to the father, shoidd thus have oocurred 
to the son. 

" There must be," observed Aunt Eleanor, when she a&d her tere- 
rend fiiend were alone, " some deep mystery in this." 

" It is, certainly," said the reverend gentleman, " the most mysterious 
thing I ever heard or read of." 

" Heaven grant that the consequences may not be the same*** 

" I say Amen to that. But, if he be innocent, I do not see how they 
can prove him to be guilty. The case must be tried before a judge, 
and no judge coidd allow a young man like him to be cast unjustly." 

" That I apprehend depends entirely upon the evidence— does it not?" 

" Exactly. But what evidence — ^what clear, substantial evidence- 
can be brought against an innocent man? For example: suppose I 
were accused of burning a house down; would I not, if I were inno- 
cent, defy all the world to prove me guilty? What evidence could be 
brought forward to prove me guilty of that of which I was innocent?" 

" Circumstantial evidence," said Sylvester, who at the moment re- 
entered the room. 

" Circumstantial evidence, I grant, has frequentlyled to conviction; 
but then it must be very strong and conclusive. Ivhat circumstantial 
evidence could be sufficient in, for instance, a case like yours?" 

" In cases like mine, the proof, almost invariably, depends upon cir- 
cmnstantial evidence." 

" But what evidence — ^what sufficient evidence— of any kind, can they 
bring against you?" 

" There is t5ie evidence of the butler, who is ready to swear that he 
saw me in the house at the time." 

'^ I must go to town and talk to that butler. I must see that man. 
His soul is in peril. It is necessary that he should know that. I have 
a great mind to go to-morrow morning*" 

Sylvester smiled at his reverend Mend's simplicity, and observed that 
he feared that that would be of little use. 

" I don't know that," resumed the reverend gentleman. " Men have 
been induced, under similar circumstances, to turn from the pursuit of 
evil. It may be that this man has been bribed by his master — ^I do not 
say that he nas been-^but such things are possible: indeed, if my me- 
mory seryes me right, t have read in some book that imch things har^ 



2i8 %jLy^xtn soukd. 

been done. If,, therefore^ it be bu in this ciu»e— ^ii' thi^i man's .master, has 
wickedly bribud him to swear that that is true which hck^QW^ to b^ 
false — ^he should be seen and talked to, and expostulated with ;. the. posi- 
tion in which he is about to place himself ought to be clearly hud before 
him ! the awful nature of the sin he is about to commit should be ex- 
plained to him seriously and solemnly ! and whp knows thai, whi^i^ . he 
has been made duly sensible of the consequences whicl^ must of ;icqe»- 
siiy follow the commission of so dreadful a sin, he may not become yi^^ 
in time and repent? I hold it to be the duty of every Christian qiinister 
to endearour, by all the means of which he is cap^ble>.to rescue .unfor-.. 
tunate souls from perdition; and if I could save this unhappy maa-^^ 
I cbuld in time convince him of the eiTor of his ways — if I could shQW 
him that hb immortal soul is now in jeopardy — strike into his mind; the 
light of trutli — ^inspire him with confidence in Him to wliom all/ hearty ; 
are open — ^bring Kim to the throne of grace iuid mercy, and teach h^ 
to sin no more: if I could but in time effect this, I should think no 
journey too long, no trouble too gi-eat ; no pains nor expense should, 
on my part, be spared." 

" I appreciate the feelings by which you ai-e actuated," said Sylvester; 
" and I am by no means insensible to the power of your appeals; still I 
thmk that, under the circumstances, such a journey as tliat which you 
contemplate, would be unprofitable." 

"Gh! there is no knowing what might be done. Tlie heart of the 
man might be altogether turned : his ideas of good and evil n:ught be 
completdy changed ; and, therefore, I might be successful. However, 
we'll think the matter overl I don't like in any case to act with pre- 
cipitation. Our views may change ; but I must say that my present 
impressicm is, that an hour's conversation with that unhappy man Avould 
do good." 

During the whole of that evening nothing was discussed or even 
thought of but the forthcoming trial; and soon afler the reverend gen- 
tleman had lefl Sylvester and his aimt retired. 

He had not, however, been asleep more than half an houi*, when the 
company, assembled at the Crumpet and Crown, were thrown into a 
most intense state of consternation by the sudden re-appearance of 
Pokey, who declared that the ghost had re-visited Cotherstone Grangfj. 
" I see it," said he, with an aspect of terror; " I see it, as plain as 1 
see you here now!" 

" Where?" demanded Obadiah. 

"Just down the road! I was going home quiet, when, all of a 
sudden, what should I see but a monstrous tall figure — taller than the 
t'other by more than a yard — ^breathing white smoke from his nostrils, 
and looking with ah eye of real fire." 

"It won't do," said Legge; "at least, it won't do for mc! I suppose 
you saw a man with a cigar in his mouth." 
"Not a bit of it!" 
" How many eyes of fire had he?" 

" I saw biit one, hud that was a bhizer — 1 never before see such an 
eye iu my Kffe-i-but, of com'se, he has two, although I didn't see 'em.'* 



Tok' d6iia(liiB^ia¥: 249 






tcAI iniai Hm a ghoBt?'* 

"Tteeiriis'nogli^ostrV \ ^„.J ! ;v^^•r• --^r' -^ '••.•.: . 

*It was, 1 tell you, Can't tTDejfevejpiy.oiiy^ ,f,. , , . . 

** It woti't doj l*okey ! . t wbii'i i^ke it in! , I^ ypu ^^^ly, apjtjtujig ,6jm< 
11 man, ydu saw it in imagiinatiou merely.*' , ; ,. ,- j , / ,..,, ; ,,,. ..,..• 

^* \s Pijtcr tlic Qx^at did,'* bbsorv^ Obadiab^. '^at./th^j.tima be^ 
ima^MHe*a welted thie Dutch-" '. ' , ..j. '. V-v . .: .... 

^« P^tlw^Jreat!" retorted I^okey, coi^tempt^^pusIXf .,',?; .v^T^^ WtWs ] 
got'tb^'dd'i^ith/Peter t}ie. Great?" , ' ,,. j. ,... .',,j,J ...? .,', . .. v 

"'What'*has it got to do witli it? It's gpt all tQ do, wijifi i^J, nifnd you 
thai!' 'Whfeh* the Dutch, in the reign of old Hawcy thiS^igJ^^^br-",, .,, ... 

^'Blislte^ tjie Dutch, and Itarry the Ejigbt^ t^o^ , Wb^, dp. ^pyi : 
think w0' want to know about the Dutch ? I teB . ycm agaift, ttat I pe^e .^ . 
gho^! It was hll in white, from head to heel; aodivb^t^s mo];e^ jLt bad . 
an umbrella.'] ., i •: » = -: 

^/'^UlnWella!" cried Legge. ,., . \ \- ■,_ 

" I* sa^yr a!h umbrella I And what's more, be had it up, aa if . it .r^iaedt. 
pouring.*' , : . r , ... . , .: 

" Welir' said Lpgge. "I hav^. heard of many thi^gs, but I iiewr 
before heard of a ghost with an umbrella I" 

Whereupon a loud roar of laughter burst from all but Pqkey,. whppi. 
theii* utter incredulity rendered indignant* : - ^ • 

"I donH Care a button about your laughing," said be; ** I know what ; 
I kjibw; And I'll bet you half a gallon it was a gbo^t, ^d.npthing butl!' .. 
'* Wh6's to prote it?" ^ / 

" If you can't believe me, cc«ne and ?ee it ypurself 1. tNowy:itheur;i 

"We $houId be great fools to do that 1" said, Obadiah; i*,*n«.big fookt, 
as the French was at the battle of. Bunker's Bill, iBrhei). C^avlej (ft^.oi 
Second — ^\ , ^, ..>..,,..: t-;- j.^..' ■ M 

"I don't care about what they was^ at £iunke3;*St^iil;i i -only ^oyr-. 
this : you daren^t come and see." , , . ,.•- ^ * j: *^ 

"Daren^t!*' echoed pi^adiah, valiantly; "daxen't,r.^ r-.^< , .f '■:'■■< 

"Aye;daren*t'!;; ril bet you half a gallon ypudw , ... \ 

"Do ybii 'know what Csesar said when Pompey told him h^^^e^^t? > 
'Pompey,' said he — " r^ ,f : r » \. -m, .t .. ' •: r ^^ ' 

" Pompey bjB smothered. Wiiat'a Pompey to do with it? Iljell^ydtt • 
I'll make y9u'thi8 bet, ii^you lik^, and 111 put the mo^v^y down^'.^.- .,, (s' 

"Do yo^'thuik'th,at, ibr the sake of half a gallon of beer, I'll aUow^ 
you, oi:' any other man in the universe^ to place mc in the juxtappsitioa • 
of being lauffhed at? ^ Not exactly. My ideas, dqi^t fructify in that 
way, arid' so you rieedn*t think of haying the laugh ag^in^t^ji*,"; 

" I don't want to have the laugh against ytiu»" , ■/. 

"But it would be agr^itist me, if I wtje^^tp go.9.\it{.pii. JBU<^i.»a!;f<>ol?d 
errand iyj iluit. It won't do. Pokey:; ft,wc(n;)b ^q^jnjyi.boy^ ij^ 
very clevei- man at yyur needle, ^n^^ expe^fe . 

to get trtrer^^e." • . >i- - . 



*' There is cerUrinly fom^hiiig white moving about,'* said L^gge, who 
had been to the door. 

" Is it a fact?'' cried Obadiah. 

" Come and see !" replied Legge, who returned to the door, and Oba- 
diah rose and followed him, and Quocks, Bobber, and Pokey, rose and 
followed Obadiah ; and, after straining their ejes for some time towards 
the cottage, they ail indistinctly perceired something white. 

" Now, will you believe meV cried Pokey. 

''It's strange," obsenred L^ge; ''it is certainly Strange l«-*47ttt we 
have yet to learn that that which we see is a ghost. 

" What else can it be?" demanded Pokey. 

" It isn't the old maid's white horse?" suggested Obadiah, pointedly. 

" No: that's no horse," returned L^ge. " Will any one ootne with 
me and see what it is?" 

" Oh," said Quocks, " if we go at all, we had better go altogether. 
What do you say?" 

Obadiah seemed very unwilling to go, but as all the rest consented, 
he felt, of course, ashamed to hold back. They, therefore, moved slowly 
towards the cottage; and as they moved, the figure became more and 
more distinct; but they had scarcely got more than half way, When 
Obadiah exclaimed, with a start, "Here it comes! — ^Don't you see?-^ 
It's coming towards us. There — ^therel" and having uttered these 
startling exclamations, was about to rush back ; but Legge seized his 
arm on the instant, and stood to watch its movements with comparative 
calmness. When, however, he fotmd that it was absolutely approach- 
ing, even he receded — gradually, it is true-— but his retreat kept pace 
with the advance of the figure, Upon which he still kept his eyes con- 
stantly fixed. 

On reaching the door-^to which Bobber, Quocks, and Pokey, had 
previously rushed— he stood for a moment to ascertain whether the 
figure resdly meant to come on, and on being sufliciently convinced that 
that was its intention, he darted in, closed the door, and locked it. 

"Heaven save us!" exclaimed Mrs. Legge, who was then with the 
rest in the passage. 

" Hark!" cried Legge, as footsteps approached; " hark— Aar/k.''* 

The next moment, to their horror, they saw the latch rise. Their 
hearts sank within them. They were stricken with terror. There was 
not a man there who appeared to have sufficient strength to move. 
They could, in fact, scarcely breathe— while poor Mrs. Legge, who had 
fallen on her knees and covered her face with her apron, fainted. 

Again the latch moved, and a knocking was heard; and Legge, 
imnecessarily, whispered, "Hu-s-s-shl" seeing that they would not 
if they cotdd, at that moment, have made the slightest noise for the 
world. 

The footsteps receded — slowly, and apparently with some degree of 
irresolution— and then a slight cough was heard— a sort of clearance of 
the throat — ^which on their ears fell like a groan. But after that they 
heard no morei they listened still, and breathed again; yet, although 
they felt better, they continued very faint. They cs^ed for brandy, but 



THE AOHSriJtBtTllflT. 2tl 

Legge, who was endeaTouriiig to bring his wife roimd, could net then 
attend to that call: nor was it until that lady had recorered that the 
brandy-bottle made its appearance. 

During the whole of this time not a single observation, having 
reference to the ghost, was made. They were thoughtful^ but silent, 
and looked at each other with expressions of amazement and Idarm; but 
when each had had a glass of Legge*a brandy, they began to discuss the 
subject openly, yet cautiously, until indeed each had had a secmd glass, 
when Obadiah boldly declared that he didn't believe it was any ghost 
ataU. 

"What!" exclaimed Pokey^ on hearing this monstrous declaration. 
" Do you mean to tell me, after what we've heard and seen, that it could 
by possibility be anything but a ghost?" 

" Yes, I do! Look at the nature of ghosts in general. What are 
they? Spirits — ^that's what they're made of. Now fructify your ideas 
a little: just look you here:-^Do you think that if that had been a 
ghost, and it had wanted to come in here^ it wouldn't have come in?'' 

" How could it?" 

" How could it!" 

" Aye, when the doot Was locked?" 

" miat's the odds about the door being locked. CoUldn^t it hare 
come through the keyhole?" 

" What, a ghost of that size!" 

" What's the size to do witli it? Ghosts-**real ghosts^-Kian go any- 
where they like, and through anything they like! It makes no odds to 
them what it is! Talk about a keyhole; why, they'll go through the 
smallest conceivable crevice! What does it matter to tibem? If that 
had been a ghost, rather than suffer himself to be done, he'd have sunk 
into the earth on one side of the door, and come up on the other, at 
once !" 

" What do you mean? What, clean through the flag-stones?" 

" Flag^stones! Of course! What do ghosts care about flag-stones?" 

" Well, if they'U do that—'' 

" That! They'll do anything, those fellows will. It's no odds to them 
what they do." 

" But do you mean to say — ^" 

" Yes, I do! I mean to say that that waS no ghost" 

" I don't believe it was myself, now," interposed Legge. 

" Nor do I," said Quocks. 

" Nor don't I," obsetved Mr. Bobber. 

" Well, but look here," cried Pokey, " if it wasn't, what made you all 
so frightened!" 

" There's times," said Obadiah, assuming a ptt)foundly philosophical 
expression; " when the ideas of men don't fructify as they ought: there's 
also times when the amalgamating juxtaposition of those ideas is not 
boney fidi non compas. When, therefore, the intellects is either nem 
con, or sine die, and the fructiflcation of ideas in the brain is at its 
majdums, why, we're just like the Botnans when the Greeks stormed 
Turkey, we don't know what to think; tmt when the flttpem^oral ex- 



252 BTLYKSTSB flOUHD 

citement is over--*when the luind comes frucUiying. round, to ^ own 
proper juxtaposition — then, my boy, we can look atithe whole <^ the 
rumiiicadons of the case calmly, and Bee what out-an^-out fools we have 
been." ... .. ,. , 

"I know what you mean," said Pokey, "exact: ^thougli I ^onl; 
understand them hard words: you mean to say th^t wh^o. we re. fright- 
ened^ were different to what we are when we are not" . 
"That's just what I do mean." 

" Very good. And I agrees with you. But what puzeles p^ is, 
that you should have both heai*d and seen it, and thought it a goost, 
and then, when it's gone, say it's no ghost at all! For my part^X still 
think it was one, and a real one, too. If it was not, viiuU was,it?*^ 
" That's the point. That's just what I should like to find out^ 
^ Do you think it was a man dressed up like a ghost?" 
" I do." 

" Then why don't you go out and tackle him? You're big enongli.'* 
'* If it be a man," said Legge ; " I should only just likje to' catch him. 
Fd serve him out! I'd break eveiy bone in Us skin!" , , j. 

" Well, why don't you go and do it? If / thought it was— ;^little jfs 

lam — ^I'll be blistered if I wouldn't go out and tackle him. • iButlji^pt 

-—I can't think it The very fact of its coming right up to the^t^us^. 

conyinces me that it isn't a man." '.\i ]. 

"I think it is now," observed Legge. 

"And 80 do I," cried Obadiah. ' f ' 

"/ dcm't think it was a ghost," said Quocks. . . 

"No more don't I," said Mr. Bobber. 

" AVell, then, look here," cried Pokey, " if that's it, look here. Here's 
fova: men here as believes it to be nothing but a man dressed up a^ a 
ghost — ^four strong, powerful, bony men — why, do you think th^B^t if I 
was one of you four, and believed, as you believe, that I wouldn't t)e. aflef 
him iu double quick time?" 

" If he is a man," cried Mrs. Legge, who had privately had ^a little 
brandy-and-water; "I should like to catch the villain-r-fd scratijji'his 
very eyes outl" , , ,,^ 

"But just look you herel" resumed Pokey, who wanted to ^o home, 
but didn't at all like the idea of starting; " here's foi^ of yoii ^ere as 
does believe it, and yet there isn't one that'll uioye a peg !" 

" Oh, I'll go," said L^ge, " if you'll all comawithm^:^ or if s-iiy oije 
of you will come, I'll go." .: . , . 

" You don't stir out of the house again to-night," sfdd ffis. li<egge, 
" if I know it. . You know, I aiuppose, what you'ye ^o^ tp ^o in the 
morning? . Let them as likes to go, go : yon pJin't. life's tie .br^w<?r, 
here, coming here at four I" . \ , . , . . ; i . , . ; 

"I know it, my dear — ^l know it," J9aid Legge. ... , , 
" Very well, then ; what do you want to go out for?\* ., ., , 

"I don't want to go, my dear. Still,* if Iiwere quitp siire of patcliiqg 
this ftillow,. I should feel my^eK bound (jo gp, o^t.jviththe re3t.'* ^ ,' 

"I only just wish I had him here," cried Mrs. Legge, i^ne^geUcaDy; 
" I'd teach the villain, I'll warrant !" 




, 



'//' /////// W/^ jrr// ///' ///aj/ 



THE SOMNAMBULIST. 253 

" You had better, I think, go to bed, my dear," said Legge, who per- 
ceived that his spouse wad excited — " you had better go to bed : I shall 
be with you shortly." 

"I shall not go till you go," replied Mrs. Legge; "and I think it's 
time for all married men to be at home." 

"Let us have some more braady-and-water," said Quocks, who 
invariably,' when he received a hint of that description, stopped 
an hour longer, at least. " Suppose," he added, " we have glasses 
round?" 

" yfhBi do you want any more for?" inquired Mrs. Legge. 

^* C^^ we most have another glass apiece." 

" /shaVt draw any more. Legge may do as he likes; but, if I was 
him, not anoiJiei^ drop should be drank in this house to-night, if I 
knew it'.** ' . 

"Now then, L^^ge! Come, vrhere's this glass? Now, gentlemen, 
givp your orders." 

" f m&t go,'* said Pokey. 

^'iNbnsense', num. What, go alone? The ghost is safe to chaw j^u 
up. Wait till I go, and then youll be safe. Come, order another glass 
like a .man.** 

Pokey, who dtdn^t Hke to go alone, ordered anoUier glass; and so did 
Obidiydii and 96 did Bobber, and so did Quocks; and Legge attended 
to their orders, while Mrs. Legge intimated plainly that iSae thought 
him a fool. 

L^;ge, however, took no notice of this. He was used to it. There 
was, therefore, no novelty whatever about it. He replenished their 
glassQSj and took their money, and then philosophically filled another 

. ^e lla4, however, no sooner done so, than they again heard a knock* 
ing^^t i£e door: not the same description of knocking — ^no, but a knock- 
ing' which cleArly intimated that he who knocked regally meant it. 

." ghall I go?" said Legge, doubtfully. 

^''Ce^t^iiify not,*' cried Mrs. Legge. "No." 

■*^ Oh, go/* s^d Obadiah. " Only don*t let hhn in." 

" WJiy not?** demanded Pokey. " You say if he's a ghost he. can 
gfet in wiliiout yoti; and if he isn't, you should very much like to catch 
him : wliy, thq;i, should he not be let in?" 

" Who's there f* cried Legge, on approaching the door^ . 

"Oh, for heaven*^ 5a^tf, let me in^-ohy pray let me inl" replied the 
man who h^ knocked, 

**^Who ^ yoii?'* ' 

**rni a'txaveller — ^a poor traveller. But pray let me in." 

"Oh', leilTiim iri," said Quocks. " If he means any nonsense, we are 
more than a match for him. Let him in, Legge*^ 

"I'll not have him here,'* cried Mrs. Legge. • "Keep the door closed: 
I'll not have him here." 

Bui tefore thb last words( had bi?ett uttered, the door Svas opened, and 
in rushed a |)6or tiian, with cheeks blanched with terror, exclaiming^— 

^ A gkbst^— a'ghostl" ' 



254 tTLTBAnR $oxmp 

'< What do yon mean?** demandod L^gge. ^' Come il^to tllia rooai. 
Now, then, what do you mean by a ghoat?** 

''Pray give me some water," said the poor man, Hsiintly. ^^ Plasm 
give me some watvr." 

'* Here, take some of this/' said Pokey, oflfeiing hi« gto^; ^'it^'U do 
you a little more good/* 

The poor man drank from Pokey*s glasSi aal aj^eared to a{^Mrov6 of 
the flavour of its contents. 

" Now, then," said Legge, " what was it that alarmed you?" 

'' A ghost," replied the traveller. '' J naver saw one before m aQ my 
life." 

'^ Are yon sure it was a ghost?" inquired Pokey. 

" Quite," replied the traveller—*" oh, quite sure." 

" You don't think it was a man dressed up like a ghost?" 

" If it was, he ought to be shot. But I can't think it Yfmi no, 1 4on't 
think that that was any man." 

" Nor do I," observed Pokey. 

" What, have you seen him then?" 

'' Yes; I taw him about half-an-hour ago: we all sftw him* He ha4 
an umbrella then. Had he one when you saw him?" 

'^ No, he'd no umbrella. But it struck me-— thougby of course, it 
couldn't be--^ut it struck me that he had a cigar in bi^ ntiouth 
smoking.'* 

" Then it is a man!" cried Legge. " Whereabouts did you see him?'* 

'' Just down tlie road, there. He's not a hundred yards from us now." 

" Then as true as I'm alive," said L^ge, " if any one will gp with me, 
I'll see what he's made of!" 

" Indeed," said Mrs. Legge, " you'll do nothing of the sort." 

« Will you go, Drant?" 

" 1 don't think it worth while,^* replied Obadiah. " Not that I'm a 
mite afraid— only I don't exactly think it wortli while." 

" Well, mU you go. Pokey?" 

" I tell you I don't think it is a man at all. If I did, I'd go at once, 
but I don't." 

" That's no man," observed the traveller. 

" Not a bit of it!" cried Pokey. " If I thought it was I'd go in a mo- 
ment." 

"/'ZZ go!" cried Quocks. 

" Then come along," said Legge; " come along!" and, despite the re- 
monstrances of Mrs. Legge, they started. 

On reaching the road, they looked cautiously round. Legge was 
armed with a thick stick, and Quocks with a pokej^; and, doubtless, had 
they seen any ghost at that moment, they would have attacked him ; 
but they didn't: they walked down the road, and all was still; but just 
as they came within sight of the cottage, they saw the same figure glide 
slowly towards the door, and apparently vanish through one of the 
panels. 

" No man could do that," observed Quocks, " that's quite clear." 

" Strange," said Legge, mysteriously; " veiy strange, indeed," 



T^ SOHKAlfBtTlIST. 2SS 

" Shall we go up to the gate?" 

^* I'll go to the door, and knock them up, if you like!" 

*< Well, but let's first go up to the gate, and have a look." 

LeggG consented at once; and they went to the gate, and looked 
anxiously round, but eaw no *^ ghoet." The door was closed, and all 
was still : there was, indeed, a light in Aunt Eleanor's room ; but that 
they both knew to be usually there. 

Aunt Eleanor, however, was restless that night: the duel and ihe 
action both preyed upon her mind; and, therefore, when she heard 
Legge and Quocks talking at the gate, she came to the window and looked. 

" What's that!" exclaimed Quocks, as he saw the blind move. 

" That's IMrs. Sound," returned Legge. " Stop a bit. Perhaps she'll 
open the window." 

She did do so ; and having cried ^* Who's there?" Legge answered ; and 
she ki^ew his voioe at once. 

" Is there anything the matter, Mr. Legge?" she inquired. 

" Why, ma'am," replied Legge ; ** they say it's a ghost." 

" Good heavens! What again! Did you see it?" 

" Why, ma'am, I saw something very much like one ; and if it be, it 
has just now entered your cottage." 

" Heaven preserve us!" exclaimed Aunt Eleanor. 

** You shouldn't have told her that Legge — ^" said Quocks. 

" X don't wish to alarm you, ma'am," cried Legge. " My only object 
is to render every possible assistance, if any assistance be required." 

** You are very kind — very kind. Will you wait a moment?'* 

^^ Certainly, ma'am, with all the pleasiu'e in life." 

Aunt Eleanor then rang the bell, and continued to ring until Mary 
appeared. 

" Mary," she cried, " tell Judkins to get up this moment.'' 

" Anything the matter, ma'am?" 

" Tefl him to go down and speak to Mr. Legge.'* 

Mary conveyed the message to Judkins, who was up in a moment, 
and lost no time in running down to the door. 

" What's the row?" he inquired; " what is it?" 

" Have you heard any noise?" cried Legge, 

<* Noise ! no. What noise do you mean?'* 

" We thought that you might perhaps have heard some noise.** 

" Open the gate, Judkins : I wish to speak to Mr. Legge," said Aunt 
Eleaxiior, as nhe descended. 

Judkins opened the gate, and Legge and his friend Quocks went to 
the door, and explained to Aunt Eleanor all they had seen, and thereby 
inspired her with feelings of apprehension. 

She then searched the cottage, but found nothing at all calculated to 
create the slightest alarm, and eventually knocked at Sylvester*s door, 
and awoke him. 

" Have you been at all disturbed, my dear?" she inquired. 

" No, aunt! no!" he replied. 

^'I am hai^y to hear it. I thought that you might have been. 
Good night, my dear: God bless you: good night." 



256 8TLTK8TBR BOUITD 

<' Well, Mr. Legge/' she added, on her return, <' I find evestjtikiRg m 
the house as it should be ; but I, nevcathdess, highly appreciate jrour 
kindness. We mutt trust in Providence. Heaven I hope will protect 
usaU." 

Legge and his friend then left the cottage with many expressions of 
deep respect, and with feelings over which they haid no controul, 
returned to the Crumpet and Crown. 

"Sold again!" cned Obadiah, as they entered; <^a dead sell, of 
course?** 

" Not exactly," replied L^ge; " no, not exactly." 

" Did you see it, then?" 

"Yes." 

"And was it a ghost?" 

" That I must leave. My impression is, that it was." 

" I never," said Quocks, " in all my days, saw anjrthing go through 
a panel so clean." 

" Through a panel ! What panel?" 

" The panel of Mrs. Sound's door." 

" It went clean through?" 

" As clean as a whistle f 

" It*s a ghost, then ! Safe to be a ghost ! Just exactly what I said. 
Didn^t I say so? What's a door to a ghost? Why, no more than 
Bobby Peel is to Johnny Russell. You may bolt and bar your dooirs 
till you can't see out of your eyes ! What do you think a real ghost 
cares about that? If it wants to come in, it will come in, and no 
mistake about it ! A ghost cares no more for a door, my boys, than 
the Egyptians cared for the Turks, when they welted the Chinamen 
hollow with a single jaw-bone of an ass. I tell you now, as I told you 
before, a door is no more to a ghost, than Boney was to Nosey; not a 
mite." 

" But did you see it really, though?" said Pokey. " Upon your soul, 
now, did you see it go into the cottage?" 

"As true as I'm alive," replied Quocks ; " I saw it go in, as plain as I 
see you now." 

" It's a ghost," said the traveller ; " as sure as you're bom." 

" I haven't half a doubt about it," cried Pokey ; " I knew in a moment 
that it was, by the manner of it." 

" Well," said Legge, who now wished them to go ; " it certainly is a 
most mysterious piece of business, but I suppose we shall see no more 
of it to-night. Therefore, when you're ready, gentlemen— don't let me 
hurry you — ^but when you're ready, I'll close the house." 

" rm ready," said Pokey, who thought of his wife ; " quite ready. 
But let us go together, you know: let us go together!" 

" With all my heart," cried Obadiah. " As far as ghosts are con- 
cerned, I'm no more afraid of ghosts than Peter the Great was of Dickey 
the Third, still I think it will be as well for us all to go together." 

And the rest thought so too ; and they rose simultaneously and left 
the house, with the imderstanding that they were to meet with the view 
of discussing the matter in tbe morning. 



THE SOMXAMBULIST. 257 

CHAPTEli XXX. 

THE SUSPICION. 

AtTNT Eleanor — notwithstanding her apparent tranquillity while 
speaking to Legge and his friend — ^no sooner returned to her chamber 
alone than she burst into tears, for the recollection of her brother's 
death came again full upon her, and all her former painful apprehen- 
sions were renewed. She felt that his spirit still hovered around her— 
that it had something dreadful to communicate, and that it could not 
rest until that communication had been made. She wished it would 
appear to her then: she absolutely prayed that it might then ap- 
pear; and, while contemplating with feelings qf dread the possibility of 
its appearance, her imagination, being excited strongly at the time, at 
once created a figure — the very figure of her brother — which stood 
■with an expression of sorrow before her. 

She started — and for a time ceased to breathe — and while she glared 
at the spectre, she became cold as death. There it stood, perfectly mo- 
tionless and silent, and there it continued to stand, until, inspiring suffi- 
cient courage, she exclaimed, in a thrilling whisper, " Dear brother, why 
are you here?" 

This broke the charm. The spectre instantly vanished. But it 
came again when all was still, and she then saw it even more distinctly 
than before. 

She rose to approach it with feelings of awe, but, as she advanced, it 
receded, until it completely disappeared beneath the bed-clothes. This 
was strange, certainly — very strange indeed. She couldn't at all 
understand it. Could it be possible that she had been deceived? Could 
she have beheld it in imagination merely? She passed her hands over 
her eyes, and then, in order to be sure that she was perfectly conscious, 
proceeded to bathe them. 

Again she looked round. The spirit had fled. She turned down 
the bed-clothes. No spectre was there. But the idea of getting into a . 
bed in which she conceived that a spirit had taken refuge, appeared to 
her to be monstrous. She, therefore, resumed her seat in her easy 
chair, and, having looked in vain for the spirit's reappearance for nearly ' 
an hoiu*, she involuntarily dropped off to sleep, and slept soundly, until 
Mary at the usual time came to the door. 

The reverend gentleman, soon after this,, heard th^t the ghost h^d 
revisited the Grange, and, having made minute inquii-ies, of which, the 
result Avas the startling information, that it had again enteried the cot- 
tage, he proceeded to call oh his dearest friend iii a state of intense 
anxiety. 

As he passed through the gate, she descended the stairs, and when 
they met, he pressed her hand ^vith affectionate warmth, but her pale 
face inspired him with fearful apprehensions. 

T 



258 SYLVESTER SOUND 

" I)e.ir Eleanor," said lio; "you are not well. Have you been much 
alanncd?" 

" I have IxHin somewhat alarmetl/* she replied, as she slightly smiled, 
and led him into the parlour. " Then you have heard," she contiuued, 
" you have heard of this mysterious occuiTence." 

" I heard that the people in the village were alarmed by the appear- 
ance of a spirit which they saw enter here. At least they imaging that 
they saw it. Whether they did or not, of course I must leave. I pre- 
sume that you saw nothing of it?" 

" I saw it as distinctly as I now see you here." 

" Is it possible." 

" Not at the time it was seen by them, but subsequently, while I 
was sitting in my chamber." 

" Heaven preserve us !" 

" I saw it twice ; and, as I feared, it was the spirit of my poor, dear 
brother." 

" What, and did it speak to you?" 

" No. I spoke to it ; but it instantly vanished, and when it reap- 
peai'ed, I rose to a2)proach it; but again it vanished, and I saw it no 
more." 

" You amaze me ! Then you absolutely saw its countenance?" 

" Yes: and it was that of my poor unhappy brother." 

"Bless my heart alive; why, what on earth can it mean. There 
must be some dreadful mystery at the bottom of all this. It was silent, 
you say ; quite silent?" 

" Quite." 

" Did it not intimate anything by gestures?" 

" Nothing. It was perfectly motionless." 

" Strange, very strange. It could not have appeared without an ob- 
ject, and one would have thought that that object, Avhatever it might be, 
would have lieen, of course, communicated in some way. You could 
not have been mistaken? You were not, I presume, at the time, 
dreaming?'* 

" Oh, dear me, no; I was sitting in my chair." 

" Well. There are strange things, both in heaven and on earth. Did 
Sylvester see it, too?" 

" No : in this house it appeared to me only. He does not even know 
that / have seen it: nor do I wish him to know, feeling perfectly sure 
that the knowledge of my having seen the spirit of his father would 
break his heart." 

" Don't you think it would be pnident to put him on his guard? It 
may appear to Jmn^ and that with the view of revealing some highly- 
important secret, and, if taken by sui^prise, he may be too much excited 
and confused to understand it. What do you think?" 

" I am at all times anxious to be guided by you; but it strikes me 
that when you reflect upon the probable consequences, you wall wish to 
conceal it from him, at least for the present." 

" You may be right: I am quite inclined to believe that you are right. 
Let it be so. We may know more anon." 



THE SOMNAMBULIST. 259 

At this inoment Sylvester entered the room, and, having greeted both 
his aunt and hei* reverend friend warmly, proceeded to ascertain what 
had occurred. 

" Was there anything the matter last night?" he inquired. 

" Do you mean, my dear, when I knocked at your door?" 

" Yes: why did you knock?" 

" I merely thought that you might have been disturbed." 

" What induced you to think so?" 

" Why, the people in the village imagined they saw a ghost — ^" 

"What, again!" 

" Yes ; and some of them declared that they saw it come here." 

"How very extraordinary! Mystery follows me, go where I may. 
Do you know the persons who fancied they saw it come here?" 

" Legge was one : the person who keeps the public-house." 

" ril go over and speak to Legge immediately after breakfast. He 
is rather a superior man, too ; is he not? I speak, of course, with re- 
ference to his position." 

" Exactly," returned the reverend gentleman. " He is a superior 
man: a man of strong mind, and good, plain, common sense." 

" And a kind creature, too," said Aunt Eleanor, " I'm sure. He came 
over last night, in order to ascertain if he could render me any assist- 
ance." 

" Well. I'll go and speak to him," said Sylvester ; " and then I shall 
hear all about it. It certainly is most mysterious. I can't understand 
it at all." 

It will not be incorrect to observe, that these observations were in- 
duced by the thought that he might, unconsciously, have been the cause 
of all. He had previously no conception of being a somnambulist, but, 
as a remarkable case of somnambulism had just before been published, 
he thought it possible — just possible — that he was, in reality, a som- 
nambulist himself. He did not — he could not — ^believe that he was; 
but feeling, of course, anxious — as the thought had been conceived — to 
ascertain whether he really was or not, he at once resolved on viewing 
every circumstance that had occurred in immediate connexion with 
that. 

In pursuance of this resolution, he immedijitely after breakfast left 
the cottage, and went to the Crumpet and Crown. Obadiah, and Pokey, 
and Quocks, were there, with Bobber, and several others, and, as he 
was perfectly unknown to them all, he was, of course, minutely ex- 
amined from head to foot as lie entered. 

" I say," whispered Pokey, in the ear o/ Obadiah ; " who's he?" 

" A government spy, you fool. Don't your ideas fructify?" 

"Is that a spy?" 

" Of course ! Hold your tongue." 

" But how do you know?" 

" I know by the cut of him. Mind what you're after. Bobby Peel 
has sent him down to feel the pulse of the eternal people. You'll see 
how ni cook his goose for him, presently. Fine morning, sir," he 
added, addressing Sylvester, who had taken a seat immediately opposite. 

T 2 



260 tTLYESTEB SOUND 

'* It is, indeed,** said Sylvester, " a beautiAil morning." 

" Barleys want rain, sir.** 

" You have not yet been able to get much bai'ley in, have you?" 

" Not got it in, sir! What not here the latter end of May !'* 

" Tliey liaven*t got much barley in, about here,** observed Quocks. 

« What, not barley?** 

" No, not barley. Look at the drought we've had. How could they 
get it in? The land*8 as dry and hard as the road.** 

Sylvester called for a glass of ale, which Mrs. Legge brought with a 
most winning smile. 

*' Is that the way you means to cook his goose?*^ whispered 
Pokey. 

" Stop a bit, my Briton,** replied Obadiah ; " you*ll know more about 
it, my boy, by-and-bye. He who deals with a deep *im, must be deep 
himself: you can*t get all out of a spy in a hurry. The drought, sir, I 
Ixslieve, has been pretty general,** he added, turning to Sylvester ; " how 
are the wheats in yoiu* part of the country?** 

" That which I saw along the road looked well.'* 

^' The heavy-land wheats about here don't look so much amiss, but 
those on the light lands arc perished. Which road, sir, do jou allude 
to?** 

" The road between here and London.** 

" Oh, London ! Ah, exactly. Didn't I tell you so?** he added, turn- 
ing to Pokey; " I'd have bet ten to one of it! I knew what he was, the 
very moment I saw him. / don't want to look at a man twice to know 
who and what he is! Not a bit of it! Have you just arrived from 
London, sh?" 

" I came yesterday.'* 

" Oh, indeed. And what, may I ask, do you think of the spy system 
generally?" 

" The spy system?" 

" Aye : you know, in Harry the Eighth's time, they did the trick 
very deliberately." 

" Upon my word, you give me credit for more knowledge than I 



" What, don't you remember when Peter the Great came over here 
just before the French Revolution, when Buonaparte threatened to welt 
the whole world, and sent Robespierre after the Dutch?" 

" Really," said Sylvester, smiling ; " you are much too learned for 
me. I never before heard that Peter the Great, Buonaparte, and Robe- 
spieiTe were so intimately connected." 

" Wliy, they all lived in juxtaposition." 

" Obadiah," said Quocks, calmly; " don't be an ass." 

" What do you mean?" ciied Obadiah, indignantly. 

" Hold your tongue. Don't expose yourself before strangers.*' 

Obadiah thought this very severe, and was about to inflict upon 
Quocks an extremely cutting observation ; but as Legge, who had been 
hopping down some beer, entered the room at the moment, Quocks es- 
caped that infliction. 



fiiE soMnAmbIjUst. 261 

"Good morning, sir," said Legge; addressing Sylvester, whom he 
had quite forgotten. 

" Good morning," returned Sylvester. " You were somewhat alarmed 
last night, were you not?" 

" Well; it's true we were, rather. You have heard of it, of course?" 

" I heard of it this morning." 

" A mysterious piece of business, sir, that. I can't understand it!" 

" Nor can I. It is indeed mysterious." 

"He's the ghost for a thousand," whispered Obadiah. 

" And a spy, too?" said Pokey. 

" Both, my boy. I'll bet ten to one of it. Now, youll just see how 
ni pump him. You didn't see the ghost then, yourself, sir?" he added, 
addressing Sylvester ; and then, turning to Pokey, with a wink of great 
significance. 

" No," replied Sylvester. " I wish that I had. By the way, I have 
to thank you, Mr. Legge, for your attention to my aimt." 

" Your aunt, sir?" said Legge. " Upon my word, sir, I haven't the 
pleasure of knowing you?" 

" My name is Sound." 

" OhI I beg your pardon, sir. I hope you're quite well, sir. Upon 
my word, I'd quite forgotten you. I knew I'd seen you somewhere, too ! 
How is IVIrs. Sound, this morning?" 

" Not quite so well." 

" I don't wonder at it. A thing of this sort must be very alarming 
to her. I know it gets over me! I can't make it out at all!" 

" He's a government spy, is'nt he?" whispered Pokey to Obadiah. 

" How do you know that he isn't?" 

" And the ghost, too!" 

" He may be ! You can't tell he's not?" 

" You saw this ghost, I believe?" said Sylvester. 

" Oh! we all saw it!" returned Legge. 

"Distinctly?" 

" As distinctly as a thing of the kind could be seen!" 

" And what shape did it assume? What did it look like?' 

"Why the figm^e was that of a man: tall— very tall: it stood, I 
should say, seven feet high." 

" Seven feetf^ cried Pokey; " more nearer yards!" 

"Imagination probably added to its height," observed Sylvester. 
" But how did it act?" 

" Why, sir," replied Legge, " when it was first seen, it was walking 
up and down just before the cottage-gate; and, from the description, I 
imagined it might be smoking a cigar; for only one eye, it was said, 
could be seen, and that was an eye of fire." 

" It was no cigar," said Pokey; "not a bit of it. It ivas an eye-Hsafer* 

"Well," resumed Sylvester; "and did it continue to walk up and 
down?" 

" For a time," replied Legge; " but it afterwards came here — ^to this 
Very door — ^and knocked, and lifted up the latch ; but somehow or other) 
I feit afraid at the time to let it in!" 



262 8TLV£8TKR SOUKP 

** 1 wish that you had done so T' said Sylvester. 

" Then do you not think that it was i-eally a ghost?" 

*' Why, thu thing is so extraordinary, that I scarcelj know what to 
think! But had yo\i opened the door at the time, you would have seen 
at once whether it wjis a ghost or not." 

'< I'll do so if it should come again. IVe made up mj mind to that.'* 

" That's the only way to satisfy yourself on the point. Take hold of 
it, if you caul You need not have recoiurse to any violence 1 Touch it; 
and if it be tangible, you may then, of course, be quite sure of its being 
no ghost." 

** But if I were to find that it was not a ghost — ^if I were to catch any 
fellow playing such a trick as that — I'd make him remember it tb^ 
longest day he had to live." 

" And so would I !" cried Mrs. Legge. " I'd scratch his very eyes 
out!" 

" I'd miu-der liim right off I" exclaimed Pbkey. 

" And sen'e him right, too," said Quocks. " Hanging's too good for 
him." 

^^ If," observ^ed Sylvester, calmly, '* a man in a state of oonaeiouaness, 
and with the view of creating alarm, were to be guilty of so disgraceful 
and dangei*ous an act, he would desenx to be punished ¥rith the utmost 
severity ; but, if even the figure which you saw last night be a man, it 
does not of necessity follow that he deserves the rough treatment you 
contemplate. There are men who are in the habit of walking in their 
sleep, and who pc>rfomi acts of the most extraordinary character while 
in a state of somnambulism ; and it certainly wovdd not be just to treat a 
man of that description with as much severity as you would treat a 
heartless, impious scoimdrel, whose sole object is to inspire the most ap- 
palling species of apprehension!" 

" Very true: very good!" said Legge. " That's right: quite right." 

" If I were to see this figure," resimied Sylvester — " I'm not in the 
habit of boasting, nor do I pretend to any extraordinary valour — ^but if I 
were to see it, I should go right up to it at once. I should soon, of course, 
be able to discover what it was ; and if I fomid it to be a man, and not 
the shade of a man, merely ; my very first object would be to ascertain 
if he were asleep. If I foimd that he was, I should take the utmost care 
of him ; but if on the contrary I found that he was not, I'd secure the 
villain instantly, and bring him to justice." 

" That's a very proper view to take of the matter," observed Legge. 

"Aye; but that's no man," cried Pokey. "There an't a mite of 
flesh and blood about it." 

" I can scaicely believe that it is a man myself," said Legge. " No 
man could have gone through the panel of a door as that did— *eh, 
Quocks?" 

" No," replied Quocks, " not a bit of it. I don't mean to say that 
no man could go through ; but I do mean to say that if he did, he'd 
make a hole in it, which wouldn't be closed up by magic, as that was." 

" Well," said Sylvester, rising, " it is altogether a most extraordinary 
occurrence ; still, were I to see the figure, I certainly should asoertain^ 



THE SOMNAMBULIST. 263 

if possible, what it really was. Good morning, gentlemen," lie added; 
" good morning.*' 

"That's no fool," observed Legge, when Sylvester had left. 

" Not a bit of it," said Quocks. " He knows a thing or two, and 
takes more than one view of a question." 

" Drant offered to bet ten to one about his being a government spy," 
observed Pokey ; and this observation prodiiced a hearty laugh. 

" Laugh away!" cried Obiidiah. " Laugh away, my boys! But just 
look here! Can you prove that he isn't? Come now! It's easy to 
laugh : any fool may laugh ; but can any of you prove that he isn't a 
spy?" 

" Can any one here prove that you are not one?" said Quocks. 

"Me!" cried Obadiah, indignantly. "Me a spy? Me? Where's 
the gold that could buy me? I scorn the vile fructifying insinuation. 
Wliat ! place me in the juxtaposition of a wretch who would do any 
cold-blooded business for money — a fellow who'd swear a man's life 
away just as soon as look at him — a. villain, a boney fide villain, whose 
trade is that of tempting men merely to betray 'em ! I call it a most 
amalgamating insult! No man alive has a right to insult another by 
such a monstrous insinuation as that!" 

" Then why did you thus insult the nephew of Mrs. Sound?" 

" I didn't tell him that he was a spy!" 

" Nor did I tell you that you were a spy. You asked if any one could 
prove that he was not : I asked if any one could prove that you were 
not. I believe one to be as much of a spy as the other ; but you forget 
that when you denounce men for insinuating that which you have in- 
sinuated, you, in effect, denounce yomself.'* 

" Well; but look you here: he was quite a stranger.'* 

" What of that? Did that justify you in setting him down for a spy?" 

" But he looked like a spy: he came in like a spy, and acted as much 
like a spy, as I ever saw a man in my life." 

" Did you ever see a spy?" 

" Why, I can't say that ever I did see one." 

" Then how is it possible for you to know when a man either looks or 
acts like one? Besides, the idea of a spy being sent down here, is too 
absurd to be thought of." 

" Bobby Peel might, you know, send one down just to see, you know, 
which way the wind blows !" 

" Bobby Peel! — ^psha! What do you think Bobby Peel cares about 
the wind in a place like this?" 

" What! Do you mean to say, then, that you think he don't care?" 

" Not a strawl Why should he?" 

" Why should he? What, then, are we to be tjrrannised over and 
tramplea upon by a plundering lot of oligarchical pensioners, and not 
have a voice in the matter at dl." 

"Obadiah^" said Quocks. " YotiUl eaeiiBe me; but, as true as I'm 
alive, Obadiah, you're a fool." 

"It's all very well to get over it in thai way: there's nothing more 
eMjtfiMitocallaiiUBiafool: thne's no alignment in it! But prove m« 



264 9rhYM»tEA aouiro 

to Ih; ouo: that* the poiotoi* tlie compass! Place me in juxtaposkioa 
witli aiiy tnan in £uro|)e — ^I don*t care who he is ! — and if he knoirs 
anything of hUtory, he'll find I can tell him what** what. You may call 
me a fool just as long as you please: I don*t care a button about what 
you call me. I'rove me to be one — that's the teaaer my boy I — ^proTe 
mc, if you can, to be a boncy fide fool, and 1^11 stand ghusses round." 

^^ What do you mean by boncy fide?" inquired Pokey. 

" Boncy fide I Send I may live! Wliat, don't you know what boney 
fide means? AVhcrc did you go to school? Who had the fructification 
of your ignorant ideas? Boncy fide means out-and-out of course. A 
boncy fide fool, is an out-and-out fool ; and I shoidd Hke to see the man 
who can prove me to be one." 

** I should like to see the man who can prove that you are not one," 
said Quocks, who indignantly finished his beer, and then, without con- 
descending to utter another syllable, left them. 

" Poor Quocks I" cried Obadiah. " He can't bear to be. beaten ! I 
don't like to be hard upon any man alive, but I can't help being a little 
harS upon him : he's so ignorant of history." 

" But you don't mean to say — ^" observed Pokey, " you can't mean to 
say, that you've beaten him this morning!" 

" Beaten himl What did he run away for? Pd beat half a million 
of men like him before breakfast 1 Why, I'll bet you what you like that, 
if you were to offer him five himdrcd pounds, he ooiddn't tell you who 
Peter the Great's mother wasl What's the use of a man like that. I 
don't want to boast, but he's no more fit to be put in juxtaposition with 
me, than Bobby Peel is fit to be put in juxtaposition with Julius 
Caesar. There's nothing in him! In ail that relates to boney fide argu- 
ment, he's what I should call a mere non compos ; and he knows just as 
much about finictifyiug logic as H.irry the Eighth knew about this 
pint pot. The mind of a man must be properly amalgamated to be in 
a juxtaposition to stand against one who has studied things as I have. 
Study's the point, my boys ! no getting on ^vithout study. Study will 
beat the world hollow ; and Quocks has got no study in him." 

" Well," said Pokey, " / must go to work. I've got a pair of buck- 
skins to finish to day." 

"Business must be attended to," observed Obadiah; who, notmth- 
standing the loss of Pokey, continued to work his amalgamated fructi- 
fying boney fide juxtaposition until he was left quite alone. 

Sylvester, meanwhile, deeply reflected, not only upon the events of 
the preceding night, but upon the whole of the equally mysterious cir* 
cumstances which had occurred to him since he left the house of Mr. 
Scholefield. The event, however, upon which he dwelt chiefly, was 
that which formed the ground of Sir Charles Julian's action; and when 
he viewed the nature of the evidence against him, in connexion with 
the idea of his being a somnambulist, it appeared to him to be perfectly 
clear that to nothing but somnambulism could it be ascribed. 

But how was the fact of his being a somnambulist to be proved? 
That was the primary question. The readiest and most effectual way 
of proving it appeared to be that of communicating the idea to someone 



IHE SOatKAHBULlST. 265 

by whom he might be watched; but his anxiety to conceal it from his 
aunt, whose mind he well knew would be for ever after filled with ap- 
prehension, induced him eventually to decide on endeavouring to prove 
it himself. 

He therefore set to work and conceived various schemes, the opera- 
tion of which were in his view calculated to prove the thing beyond all 
doubt, and having decided at length upon one which appeared to be the 
easiest and also the best, he, on ix^tiring that night about ten, attached 
to one of his ancles a string, which communicated with a bell which 
he ingeniously hung, so that it would of necessity ring in the event of 
his getting out of bed, and at the same time prevent him from leaving 
the room. 

Having artfully adjusted this machinery to his entire satisfaction he 
went to sleep, and as his thoughts soon afterwards reverted to the 
" ghost," which he then felt an extremely strong desire to see, he with 
great deliberation removed the string from his ancle, rose, dressed him- 
self, and left the house. 

For some time he walked leisurely up and down the road in the full 
expectation of seeing this spectre, but as in this he was, as a matter of 
course, disappointed, he, perceiving a light at the Crumpet and Crown, 
and hearing voices within, at length went to the door. 

That night Mrs. Legge, who had been having some more private 
brandy-and-water, would have the door bolted, and Sylvester in conse- 
quence could not get in. He therefore knocked, and immediately heard 
such a hissing as that which might proceed from a dozen young ser- 
pents anxious to cry simultaneously ^* HushP* 

" There it is!" said Pokey. 

" That's it!" exclaimed Obadiah. 

" It's the same knock," observed Quocks. 

"Exactly!" cried Legge. "Now then, what's to be done? Shall I 
open the door?" 

" ril have no ghost in this house to-night, if I know it," said Mrs. 
Legge, pointedly ; " not if I know it." 

" Go to bed, my dear," observed Legge; "go to bed." 

" I shan't go to bed ! you're a rogue to me, Legge, you know you 
are." 

"Hark!" cried Legge, who had been so used to these affectionate 
observations that they really passed by him as the " idle wind." " Did 
you hear?" 

" Whatr exclaimed Pokey» 

" A groan. Shall I open the door? Will you back me?" 

" /will," replied Quocks, " at all events;" 

" Then the door shall be opened." 

" Don't !" cried Pokey. " Don't! pray don't!" 

Legge rose ; but Mrs. Legge on the instant threw her arms round his 
neck) and cleverly burst into tears! 

Legge couldn't stand this. He could, as well as any man in England ^ 
stand any given quantity of abuse, but all was over the very moment he 
mw a tear. Mrs. Legge knew this— of ccurn she knew it— «he hadn't 



266 8TLYSSTSB SOUIID 

lived all those years \rith him without finding UuU oatl^it waa&*t Jilall 
likely. 

'*If you won't go/* said Quocks, who also knew I^i^gge** weakness in 
this respect, " / will." 

"Don't! Quocks!— Mr. Quocks!— don't!" cried Pokey. "For God's 
sake, don't do nothing of the sort. 

" Why not?" demanded Quocks. '< Hark! hark !** he added, as Syl- 
vester again knocked. " I will go, and that's all about it." 

" You ahant r exclaimed Mrs. Lcgge, seising his arm. 

" What do you mean, woman?" 

" Look at me— -Mr. Quocks^-pray consider my children." 

Quocks had children of his own. He, therefore, resumed his seat in 
silence. 

" Well, I'm blow'd if / won't go," cried Bobber, 

" Mr. Bobber," said Mrs. L^;ge, " haven't you a sister depending upon 
you? If anjrthing should happen to you what will beco{ne of A«r T' 

Bobber poured out another glass of ale. 

" Well, but this ought to be seen to," cried Pokey. " You remember 
what that young gentleman said? Til open the door myseUV 

" I beHevc," said Mrs. L^gge, " that you have an aged lather. Do you 
wish him to come to the workhouse? Beware!" 

Pokey knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and re-filled it. 

" Don't you think that we'd better just ask who it is?" said Obadiab. 

^^ You may open the door^ if you like," said Mrs. Legge, who well 
knew that he dared do nothing of the sort. 

" No," returned Obadiah, " not a bit of it! /shall not open the door. 
Why don't you open it? I've lieai-d that ghosts won't touch virttwm 
women." 

" What do you mean by that?" demanded Legge, angrily. 

^^ Oh! I meant no ofience. I merely said that I had heard that vir- 
tuous women were safe." 

" Since it's come to that," cried Mrs. Legge, indignantly, " I'll open 
the door myself, if I die for it." 

Obadiah now seized the poker, and Quocks spat in his hand, in order 
to grasp his stick firmly, while Pokey and Bobber turned up tlieir cufis 
and doubled their fists. 

" Who's there?" demanded Mrs. Legge. 

"'Tis I," replied l^lvester; " don't be alarmed.*' 

The bolt was withdrawn ; the latch was raised, and in walked Syl- 
vester calmly* 

The moment he entered, Pokey and Bobb^ resiuned their seats, and 
and as Obadiah relinquished the poker, Quocks drc^^>ed his stick 
between his legs and felt better* 

"I've been looking for this ghost," observed Syllresterj "but I can see 
nothing of it* Have you seen it to-night?" 

" Not to-night, sir," replied Legge. " No, I haven't beard (^ it to- 
night." 

" I should like to see it y^ry much indeed. Am I too lale to have a 
little brandy^and-water?^' 




/>/,'/./y^; //•/;/./"./ A^,' /.///^ ///■////. 



/ 



THE SOMNUIBUUftT. 267 

"Oh, dear me — rq: not at all, sir." 

" These gentlemen probably will join me? Suppose, Mr. Legge, we 
have glasses round?" 

" If you please, sir," replied Legge, who really felt very much obliged 
to him: *'warm, sir — or cold?" 

" Suit the tastes of these gentlemen ; FU have it cold." 

" But really, sir," observed Quocks, " we don't wish that." 

" You're a good fellow, I believe," retiurned Sylvester. " It appears 
to me that you are all good fellows ; and as such you'll not refuse to 
drink with me?" 

" Certainly not, sir. We're very much obliged to you, only we don't 
like to impose on goodnature, sir; that's all." 

" If that be all, then, don't say another word about it." 

L^ge — ^who had a brilliant eye to business — ^produced five glasses of 
brandy-and-water, and Sylvester, on .counting them, observed^ ^' You, of 
course, never drink brandy-and-water, yourself?" 

"Much obliged to you," said Legge, who at once took the hint, 
but had no more idea of his guest being asleep than he had of his being 
the " spectre." Nay, it is questionable whether he would have believed 
it, if he had even been told. 

" Well," said Sylvester, " I wonder whether this mysterious swell 
intends to visit us to-night." 

"The swell, sir," observed Legge; "beg pardon; whom do you 
mean^ 

"THa.ghost!" 

" Olfj'* cried Legge, who raised a hearty laugh, in whkh the rest, as a 
matter txf gratitude, joined. "The idea of calling a ghost a sweU. 
Well, I ftmr heard anything better in my life." 

" ItiV |i hooey fide 'un, that is," observed Obadiah. " Julius CflBsar 
coulfl|l^|^ loMr^ made a better joke than that." 

" iRTaa Jufios C»sar very fond of joking?" inquired Syhrester. 

"Feooid. qf jibing I What! don't you remember when be and 
Pompeythofe veked the Dutch, what a game they had with 'em? Why^ 
thar^ w*8n't SiiDore fnsKtifying joker in the world: be was Uie very first 
origiii«l inventor of jokkig : Joe Miller stole the wbole of his jokes firom 
Julius CsdBtffJ* 

" Lideedl Well nqpi^, I vrasn't aware of that." 

" Oh, yes. Why, mdn*t the Greeks deify him-^sn't be the Heathen 
god of joking?** 

" Very likely. / thought it had been Momus«" 

" Momus! Momus was a fool to bim. He couldn^t bold the candle 
to Julius CaBsar. 

" That's true," observed Sylvester, who was highly amused. 

" He wasn't fit to tie Julius Csesar's shoe-strings," continued Obadiah. 
"There isn't a man alive like him, with the exception of Harry 
Brougham, and he's a rattler. Put all the Bobby Feds you can find in 
a lump, and they won't come half up to Harry Brougham/' 

" Brougham's a great man," said Sylvestet* 

" A greatxoajij sir! He*s a out above a gteat xoani Wa whal / eall 



268 SYLVBSfltXB SOUHD 

a honey fide* fnictifier of freedom. Talk of the Tories. Your Tories 
can't be put in juxtaposition with him. Look at *em. AVhat are they? 
A plimdering set of blood-sucking pensioners, screwing a matter of 
ninety millions a year out of the vitals of the people, and putting men 
in prison for speaking their mind, while their bishops are living on the 
fat of the land. Do you call this liberty?^* he continued, rising with 
tlie view of giving more emphatic expression to his sentiments. ** Do 
you call this fructifying freedom? If the people were not most amalga- 
mated fools they*d hang, draw, and quarter the lot. Liook at France- 
would they have it? Look at Spain — ^would they stand it? Look any- 
where you like — I don't care where you look: take Europe, Asm, 
Africa, and America, and point out a people groaning under such a 
heap of national debt, if you can. Look at the currency — there's a 
currency. Look at the corn-laws— only look at 'em. Was there ever 
such a mighty mass of monstrous corruption — ^isn't it enough to make 
one's hair stand on end? If a man becomes poor he must go to the 
workhouse and live upon gruel and such like muck, while the very men 
who have made liim poor are swimming in sherry, and port, and cham- 
pagne! Do you call this justice? Is this carrying out the eternal 
principal of equal rights? I'm for all men in the world being equal — 
why should'nt they be? A'n't the poor as good as the rich? Haven't 
they got souls and bodies as well as the rich have? Why should they 
be crushed? Why should they be ground down and trampled upon? 
I'm for an equitable adjustment. I'd have whatever money there is in 
the country equally divided among us all. It belongs to us all as a 
matter of right, and therefore we all ought to have it. One man should 
be just as rich as another. The whole system ought to be changed, 
and it can't be changed without a rattling revolution. A revolution we 
must have. That would bring the beggarly aristocracy to their senses. 
That would let your bishops and your parsons and all the rest of your 
muck know what's what. We must have a revolution : and, mark my 
words, tvhen we have one they'll know it. What ! isn't it monstrous 
that we should work and slave to let a limited lot of locusts live in 
luxury? Isn't it disgraceful to our intellects as men that we should 
suffer a parcel of puppet-show paupers to plunder and propagate the 
people in this way? Down with them. That's my sentiments! Down 
with the lot. We'll have no king — no constitution — no aristocracy! — 
strangle them all : — no bishops — no parsons — ^no church — no nothing. 
DoAvn with tyranny and up with freedom: fair, fmctifying freedom; 
unlimited liberty is all we require. Britons never shall be slaves!" 

" Bravo," cried Sylvester; " bravo, bravo! Why are you not in the 
House?" 

" The House — ^the corrupt House of Commons! If I ever put a foot 
into such a house as that I should feel it a national disgrace. No ; if it 
was honest — ^if it was pure — if it wasn't what it is — a notorious den of 
thieves — ^I'd say something to you, but as it's rank, rascally, rampant, 
and rotten, neither you nor any other man in Eiux)pe will ever catch me 
there." 

**I hope youVe been amused, sir," observed Legge, aloud* 



THE SOBIKAMBULIST. 269 

" I have indeed," replied Sylvester, smiling. 

"Amused, sir!" exclaimed Obadiali, who started again to his feet. 
" Why, when William the Conqueror welted the French, he said to 
Boney, said he, * Noav I'll tell you what it is' — ^" 

" Don't let's have any more speechifying," interrupted Quocks. 

"What do you mean?" demanded Obadiah, contemptuously. 

" I'd rather, myself, hear a song," observed Sylvester; "perhaps you 
will give us a song instead?" 

"A song. With all my heart!" cried Obadiah: " I'm ready for any- 
thing in nature. If you Avant a song, I'm the boy to sing one." 

" You can't sing," observed Pokey. 

" Not sing, you fool. Why, I'm open to sing against any man in 
Europe, for anything aside you like to name. Not sing ! Why, if you 
come to that, I'll sing you a song of my own composing. Now then!" 

"Stop!" said Sylvester; "you've nothing to drink. Mr. Legge, 
you'd better replenish these glasses." 

^®ggc, who was always on the qui vive, did so, when Obadiah put 
down his pipe, and commenced. " Anybody else," said he, " may call 
it what he likes, but I, my boys, call it 

OLD ENGLAND. 

Old Enj^land, my Britons, would, but for the Torief, 

Be merry, and happy, and perfectly free : 
The flat flag of freedom— that emblem of glories — 

Would wave, but for them, o*er the land and the sea. 
Her men are so brave, generous, joyous, and witty, 

It*8 seldom, indeed, you'll discover a rogue, 
While the girls are so precious, plump, prattling, and pritty. 

It's wonoerful bigamy's not more in vogue. 

Tol de rol, lol de rol, lol de rol, diddle lol, 
Tol de rol, diddle lol, looral-li-day. 

When Peter the Great once came over to welt us. 

With Harry the Eighth, and old Boney to boot. 
His most valiant soldiers, the moment they smelt us, 

Were struck with such terror — pooh! — they couldu*c shoot. 
Then hurrah for Old England! She has boney flde, 

A standard of liberty which, when unfurled. 
Will govern the ocean! And she's in a tidy 

Good juxtaposition to welt the whole world. 

Tol de rol, lol de rol, lol de rol, diddle lol, 
Tol de rol, diddle lol, looral-li-day. 

"Bravo I" cried Sylvester; "bravo!" 

" What do you think of that, my boys?" exclaimed Obadiah ; " that's 
more than Bobby Peel could do, I'll bet a million." 

" And is it really your own composition?" said Sylvester. 

" My own, and nobody else's !" 

" I should like to have a copy of it." 

" That you shall have, Avith all the pleasure in life, because I know 
you'ie a boney fide trump!" 

"And won't you let me have a copy?" said Pokey. 

" Yes, my brave boy, you shall have a copy^ too.'*^ 



270 8TLVX8TBR SOUKD 

" And you'll give mo a copy, of courso," said Qiiocks. 

" Well, I don't mintl, Itecause it'll fructify your views." 

" You'll give me one, too," cried Bobber, " won't you?" 

" Well, you shall have a copy." 

" I must have one," said L^^. 

" How many more of you?" 

** It's such a very pretty song," said Mrs. L^ge, archly; '< jrou'll not, 
of course, refuse to give me a copy of it." 

'' Well. I'd better have three or four secretaries of state down here, 
just to assist me. But you shall have copies: Fll take care of thnt, and 
you know, if I say that I'll do a thing, I'll do it. There's no mistake at 
all about me. I'm John Bull, right up and down straight, and I don't 
care who knows it, that's another thing, my boys." 

" Well, but how about the ghost?" suggested Sylvester; " I'm afraid 
we shall not see it to-night." 

'' The ghost, sir, may come if it likes," said Obadiah ; '^ or keep away 
if it likes, and do what it likes. I'd extend the eternal principle of 
liberty, even to a ghost. But, gentlemen," he added, rising, << Fve a 
toast to propose — a toast which I'm sure you'll all fructify in juxtapo- 
sition Avith as much boney fideness as I do. It is a toast, gentlemen, 
which reflects upon the coimtry the highest national honour a man can 
feel: a toast which, setting aside all party questions, is, perhaps, the 
most exuberant manifestation of manhood it's possible for any nation in 
Europe to show. The mind may amalgamate, the senses may soar, the 
hmnan heart which beats in the breast of a man may fructify, and 
fructify, and keep on continually fructifying, till fructification is lost in 
the utter annihilation of worlds ; but the toast I'm about to propose to 
youy gentlemen, is one which beats all your philosophy hollow. Gren- 
tlemen, we have been honoiured to-night with the presence of one who 
shines a lustre in the atmosphere of intellect, and beats metaphysics 
into fits. He has come amongst us, gentlemen, to illumine our rays, 
like the rainbow in the heavens, great, glorious, and grammatical. 
He is, gentlemen, one of that boncy fide nobleness of nature in his bosom, 
which scorns an act of meanness in liis nature, and makes his mind 
throb with hospitality. He has, gentlemen, been with us to-night like 
a star in the horizon which sheds its refreshment around ; and I, as I 
think that you'll have no difficulty in guessing the party to which I 
allude, I'll at once, without preface, propose the good health of that boney 
fide trump, there, by which we Ve been honoured." 

Cheers, of course, followed this eloquent speech, Avhich so convulsed 
Sylvester with laughter, that it nearly awoke him. At length, how- 
ever, assuming a look of gravity, he rose and said — 

" Gentlemen, I duly appreciate the extremely high compliment which 
has just been paid me by our eloquent friend, who is, moreover, a friend 
to the human race, including Bonaparte, Peter the Great, and Harrj^ 
Brougham. I call it a ho7ia fide compliment, associat^^d as it has been 
with fructifying froedoni; and I ought to feel proud of being thus in 
amalgamating juxUiposition with a statesman whose chief characteristics 
have been so conspicuously developed." 



THE SOMNAMBULIST. 271 

" That's the time o' day, my boys !" exclaimed Obadiah, as Sylvester, 
with appropriate gravity, resumed his seat. " I'hetfre the words to 
fructify the bosom of a Briton, and touch the ideiis of the human heart! 
What do you think of that, my boy, ehT^ he added, slappijig Pokey on 
the back in a state of ecstacy. ^' What do you think of that &r a boney 
fide speech?" 

" It ia a boney fide 'un, that," replied Pokey. " It's what I call splen- 
dacious!" 

The glasses were again replenished, and Obadiah sang another song, 
at the conclusion of which Sylvester suddenly rose, exclaiming — 

" The ghost — ^I must see the ghost!" 

"Oh, stop a little longer, sir — do!" said Obadiah. 

" Yes, do, sir," cried Pokey; " and then we'll go together." 

" It may be there now," resumed Sylvester, whose eyes became fixed. 
" I mu8t go and see." 

" Well, come back again for five minutes," cried Obadiah — " do come 
back again, if it's only merely just to say good night." 

Sylvester, who had by this time i-^ached the door, left the house, and 
walked deliberately home ; and having undressed himself, got into bed, 
and adjusted the string round his ancle again. 



CHAPTER XXXI. 

THE VILLAGE FAIR. 



Ix the morning, Sylvester's very first object was to ascertain whether 
the string was all right, and on finding that it was, he felt, of course, 
perfectly siu*e that he had not been out of bed. 

This evidence, however, was not alone sufiicient to convince him that 
he was not a somnambulist. He had first to learn whether the " ghost" 
had re-appeared. If it had, then the evidence of the string might be 
held to be conclusive ; but if it had not — if nothing of a mysterious cha- 
racter had occurred — ^lie felt that he should be still in a state of imcer- 
tainty, seeing that he might be in reality a somnambulist, and yot not 
walk every night. 

He, therefore, rose and dressed hastily, and being extremely anxious 
to make the necessary inquiries, went to Judkins, who was then in the 
garden. 

"Well, Judkins," said lie, "have you heard any more about the 
ghost?" 

" No, sir, I don't think he came at all last night: leastways, I haven't 
heard nothing about it, and I know if he had, I should have heard afore 
this. I wonder Avhat it wants a-coming poking about here, a-frighten- 
ing people in this here manner. I expect there's some money hid some- 



872 STLTKSTKS lOUlID 

where, or else diere*8 been a munlKT oonunittod, one of the two. It 
wouldn't come here, you know for nothing, sir, would it?** 

'^ It must have some object, I should tUnL^ 

*^ Them's the very words I said to L^gge, yesterday. Says I, * Ton 
may take your oath it don't come here for nothing;' and he agreed with 
me. Depend upon it, sir, there's something dreadful on the mind of 
that ghost. I remember, sir, a ghost came here somewhere about five 
year ago— you may have heard tell of it, perhaps? — ^well, that played 
the devil's own tricks: took the horses out of the stable— fiew all over 
the country — ^frightened people into fits, and kicked up Bob's delight! 
I expect the parson laid it at last, for we haven't seen nothing on it 
since." 

'^ Was that about Jice years ago?" inquired Sylvester, who felt his 
suspicion confirmed. 

'^ Let me see," replied Judkins, leaning thoughtfiilly on his spade. 
" Five years! To be sure! — ^it's more than five years. Fve had these 
here breeches above five years, and they was made because the others 
was found in the pickle-tub shrunk up to nothing, so as I couldn't pull 
'em on. It was five year last fidl, sir — that was the time. I remember 
now! they cost me fourteen-and-sixpence, and Pokey, down here, was 
the man which made 'em. That was a rum start, that was ! Up to 
this blessed day, I could never make out how they got into that precious 
tub. I thought, at first, that cook put 'em there to spit her spite, but I 
don't think now that she coidd have been so vicious. No; it must have 
been the ghost — ^leastways I think so: if that didn't put 'em there, I 
don't know who did. Why, let me see," he added. " Five years ! Why, 
you was down here at the time — ^to be siu-e you was! Don't you remem- 
ber, sir? Don't you remember coming up to me, and asking me whe- 
ther I wouldn't put yoiu- trousers on? Why, that was the very time, 
sir— don't you recollect?" 

" I do remember something of the sort," replied Sylvester. " But," 
he added, being anxious to check these reminiscences, lest [they should 
tend to inspire Judkins with suspicion — " how do the peaches get on?" 

'^ Capital, sir! They'll be beauties this year, sir! Just look at 'em! 
Loaded, sir: look here. There can't be finer than them. I expect to 
beat the parson this year. I never see bigger beauties yet. Don't you 
remember when you was here, five years ago, sir, the parson would have 
it that he catched you on the wall, sir, a tucking in his'n?" 

" Oh yes," said Sylvester, smiling. " I remember that well." 

" That was a rum start, too," resumed Judkins. " How he did be- 
lieve it was you, to be sure ! He was satisfied afterwards, certainly he 
was ; but Jones will have it it was you, to this day ; and he'll die in the 
belief, I expect, for you can't drive it out of him, no how." 

Mary, at this moment entered the garden with a note, addressed " To 
S. Soundj Esquire, Junior^ Sylvester smiled as he opened this note, 
and proceeded to read as follows : — 



THB SOMNAMBULIST. 273 

"Snt, ' 

" It gives me great pleasure to have the honour of presentmg 
the song of my own composing as promised. My ideas were not perhaps 
fructifying much when I ^vrote it ; but if placed in juxtaposition with 
some, it may not amalgamate amiss. It is boney fide my own, and as 
such 

" I have the honour to be, 
" Sir, 
" With great respect, 

" And high esteem, 

" Your most obedient, 

" And most humble 

" Servant, 
"Obadiah Drant." 

" P.S. I shall be at the Crumpet to-night, about nine ; and if you 
should be there, I should feel highly honoured to see you." 

Here followed the song of " Old England," which Sylvester read 
as a matter of course, and then asked himself what it all meant. He 
couldn't understand it at all! " It gives me great pleasure to have the 
honour of presenting the song of my own composing, as promised P^ 
What could the man mean by sending it, " as promised?" " I shall be 
at the Crumpet to-night about nine!" Did he expect him to go to the 
Crumpet to meet him? 

"Judkins," said Sylvester, having endeavoured to solve this small 
mystery in vain. "Judkins, do you know a man named Obadiah 
Drant?" 

"Know him, sir! I think I do, rather. He's a lunatic, sir — that's 
ray belief — a political lunatic. He'd talk a horse's hind leg off, sir; and 
then wouldn't be quiet. He's always contin'ally at it! Chatter, chatter, 
chatter, chatter — gabble, gabble, gabble! He's a wonder, sir — 2l political 
wonder." 

" Why a political wonder?" 

<; 'Cause, sir, he's always talking poHtics." 

" But he's a poet as well, is he not?" 

" I never see none of his poetry. If he does write poetry, he takes 
care to stuff lots of politics in it, I'll warrant P^ 

" Then you think he's insane?" 

" Why, sir, I couldn't, we'll say, prove him to be exactly that ; but 
it's my belief a man in his proper senses would never go on at the rate he 
does. You should just hear him talk, sir: you'd never forget it ! He has 
got a lot of jaw-cracking words at his fingers* ends, and he stuffs 'em in 
any how, and no how." 

Sylvester was noAv simimoned to breakfast, and on entering the par- 
lour with the note in his hand, he said — 

"Aunt! I have received a highly important communication this 
morning, from one of your neighboui's." 

" Indeed, my dear! Of what nature?" 

" Here it is! perhaps you would like to look at it." 

u 



274 SYLVESTER SOUKD 

Aunt Eleanor, with an expression of anxiety, opened the note ; and 
having read, exclaimed — 

" What on earth could have induced him to send this to you ?" 
" I can't imagine," replied Sylvester, " But read the 8ong !" 
She did so, and laughed most heartily. 

'< Tol de rol, lol de rol, lol de roU liddle lol, 
Tol de rol, diddle lol, looral-li-day !" 

" What is the meaning of all that, my dear?" 

" That's the chorus," said Sylvester. 

"Oh! the chorus: I understand!" she exclaimed, and merrily laughed 
again. 

" ni show this to Rouse, when he comes," said Sylvester. 

" No, my dear : you must not do that." 

" Wliy not? Hell be amused." 

"Do you think so?" 

" He's sure to bo. Besides, he ought to know what a genius he has 
in his fold." 

" I fear that this person is not in his fold. I do not believe he be- 
longs to the flock. / never saw him at ch\u*ch in my life." 

" Judkins believes him to be insane." 

" It is possible ; but I never before heard it even hinted. But he says 
here, my dear, that he presents the song *as promised!' Did he ever 
promise to send a thing of the kind?" 

" Certainly not." 

" Then the inference is that he must be insane. But we shall hear 
what Mr. Rouse says about him.'* 

They then sat down to breakfast, and while they were at it, Sylvester 
highly amused his aunt by occasionally chanting this celebrated chorus. 

" We must liave this song set to music," said he. " You can do it 
admirably. It's ii capital song. There's plenty of scope for the de- 
velopment of musiciil genius : for example, those two happy lines — 

' While the pirls are so precious, plump, prattliug, and pretty. 
It's wonderful bigamy's n&t more in vogue — ' " 

" Sylvester!" exclaimed Aunt Eleanor, " my dear!" 

" Oh! but they are excellent: and might be rendered very effective! 
I don't know exactly whether he means * precious plump,' or ' plump and 
precious,' but that you'll see. And then what effect may be given to 
these lines — 

* Will govern the ocean, and she's in a tidy 
Good juxtaposition to welt the whole world !' ** 

"Sylvester! How can you go on so! You will not let me have 
half a breakfast." 

" Well, but look at the Hidy good juxtaposition.' There's a chance 
for a musical composer!" 

" But what does he mean by the word * welt?' " 

"To welt, is to beat — to conquer! It ought to have been, perhaps, 
* to towel the world ;' but * welt' will do. And then * the flat flag of free- 



THE SOMNAMBULIST. 275 

dom!' there's another opportunity. You have but to mark tlie note flat 
over the word, and there you are. But the tiling might be studded with 
musical effects : and I submit that, as he has presented us with the song, 
we ought, as a matter of courtesy j to present him with the nmsic." 

" We shall have Mr. House here before we have finished breakfast. I 
know that we shall." 

"You are right: here he is," said Sylvester, as the reverend gentle- 
man passed through the gate, and Aunt Eleanor felt — as she always did 
feel when he first appeared — somewhat confused. 

As soon as the first cordial greeting was over, Sylvester said, *' I have 
received a letter this morning." 

" Containing some good news, I hope," observed the reverend gentle- 
man, anxiously. 

" Why it contains no bad news." 

" Tm happy to hear it." 

" Do you like poetry?" 

"I am very fond of poetry: the poetry of the Scriptures, especially: 
there's a great deal of poetry in the Scriptures, and that, too, of the most 
sublime character. David's lament, for example, in the first chapter of 
the Second Book of Samuel, is beautiful, and touching in the extreme: — 
* The beauty of Israel is slain!' and again, * Ye mountains of Gilboa let 
there be no more dew: neither let there be rain upon you, nor fields of 
ofierings: for there the shield of the mighty is vilely cast away, the 
shield of Saul, as though he had not been anointed with oil. From the 
blood of the slain, from the fat of the mighty, the bow of Jonathan 
turned not back, and the sword of Saul returned not empty. Saul and 
Jonathan were lovely and pleasant in their lives, and in their death they 
were not divided: they were swifter than eagles, they were stronger 
than lions.' And then the conclusion, * How are the mighty fallen in 
the midst of the battle! O, Jonathan, thou wast slain in thine high 
places. I am distressed for thee, my brother Jonathan : very pleasant 
hast thou been unto me: thy love to me was wonderful, passing the love 
of women. How are the mighty fallen, and the weapons of war pe- 
rished!' " 

The fervour and solemnity Avith which these beautiful passages were 
delivered, prompted Sylvester to put Obadiah's communication into his 
pocket. 

" This," continued the reverend gentleman, " is but one example: the 
Scriptures are studded with gems equally sublime. But why did you 
ask if I were a lover of poetry?" 

" Because I have a piece to show you: l>ut it is of so different a cha- 
racter that I must defer it for a time." 

" Why not show it to me now — ^without variety what wore life? It 
is perhaps a laughable piece? Well, I can weep ^vith David or laugh 
ivith Swift. What is the nature of it — ^let me see it now? But first — 
and this is perhaps of more importance — ^you said you had had a letter : 
what was that?'' 

" That and the poetry are intimately connected — they come from the 
same source. The letter, in fact, has reference to the poetry." 

u 2 



276 SVLVESTEtt SOUNn 

" Then why not lot mc si»e it at once?** 

" Wfll, as you appear to Ixi somewhat anxious about it, there it is; 
but n'a<l the iXMHry first.'' 

Thi> nvcrt'nd gentleman adjusted his sjiectaclcs, and assuming the 
fxprt'spion of a stern critic commenciHl. 

** * Tul de rol,' — what's this?" said he, on aiTiving at the chorus. 
" ' T«»i; ih? * Tol do rol,' what? * Tol de rol, lol de rol, lol de rol, 
diddlii lu!,* — why what's the meaning of all this?" 

Sylve2»ter couldn't answer him. lie was so convulsed ivith laughter 
that he went roimd and roimd the room, holding his sides, while Aunt 
Eleanor jxTspire*! with the utmost fi^Hxlom as she twisted and tortured 
herself on the couch. 

" Well," resumetl the reverend gentleman, whose gravity was still 
impertiu'bable, " let's try again : we may perhaps make something of it 
by-and-bye. It's some foreign language, I presume ! * Tol de roF — no 
— * looral-li-dayl' I can make nothing of it. Well, we'll pass that for 
the pi-csent. Let's go on. Here we are again," he added, having got to 
the end of the second verso; "here's some more *tol de rol.' I can't 
understand it ; — what on earth are you laughing atl** he exclaimed, as 
Sylvester burst into a roar. 

" * Tol de rol's' the chorus," cried Sylvester. 

" The chorus! Oh, I see: * Tol de rol, lol de ro V y ^ta q ctlyy 

" * " ^i tlie room. 

reverend gen- 
tleman. 

" Kead the note," said Sylvester: " read that now." 

The reverend gentleman calmly proceeded to do so, but when he came 
to the name, he was filled at once with indignation and amazement. 

"What!" he exclaimed; "is it possible that you ai'e in communi- 
cation with this man. Why, he's a heretic; he never comes to chiuxih, 
nor docs lie go to any other place of worship. It surely cannot be pos- 
sible that you associate with such a man as this." 

" / know nothing of the man," said Sylvester, whose convulsions were 
by this time subdued. 

" But he here says that he sends this according to promise." 

" And what he means by that I can't imagine. / never received a 
promise from him." 

" Why, the impudent fellow ! Stop a minute; here's a postci-ipt — ^ I 
shall be at the CrumiX't to-night about nine:' why he >mtes as if he 
expected you to meet him. Well, of all the effronteiy 1 ever heard or 
read of: but Fll see about it — I'll see about this ; I've long wished for an 
opportimity of speaking to this man, and this is one which I'll certainly 
embrace." 

" But he's insanCy I understand." 

" Insane! Not he. No, no, no, he^s not insane. I know him well— 
alas: too well I know him. But however he could have had the im- 
blushing impudence to Avrite to you I can't conceive. But /'// see him 
on the subject. Do not name this my intention to your aunt, or she'll 
probably iK?rsuade mc to have nothing to do with him ; but I really do 



Aunt Eleanor, being utterly unable to endure it, left tl 
"Well, and whose composition is this?" inquired fhe 




^«%^^^ 



^/, 



■kj,v' /.y- -/^.y 



>- - h 



TItE SOamAMBULISt. 277 

feel myself bound to check this unexampled insolence, and at the 
same time — ^if possible — to reclaim him. You received it this morning?" 

" Yes ; just before breakfast." 

" Very well — ^very well. I'll give him such a lecture. The Crumpet 
— ^tchoo! However, I'll see about it." 

Aunt Eleanor now re-entered the room. She felt much better, al- 
though still in pain : her cheeks were rosy, and tears were in her eyes. 
She was, moreover, still very warm. 

" Have you made out the chorus yet?" she inquired. 

" We have certainly made it out," replied the reverend gentleman* 
" But did you ever in your life hear of such consummate impudence 
as that which prompted this man to send a thing of that kind here?'* 

" Oh, I dare say that he thinks it excessively clever. He is evi- 
dently proud of its being his own — and I've no doubt at all that it is." 

"But the idea — the impudent idea — of his sending it to Sylvester: 
that's what I look at." 

" He, perhaps, conceived that Sylvester was the only one here who 
could appreciate its beauty, and he's not a man who imagines that he 
was * born to blush unseen.' We must forgive these little exhibitions of 
vanity. They are really too ridiculous to excite anger. The song has 
amused me amazingly: I have not had so hearty a laugh for a long 
time." 

" There is," said the reverend gentleman, " in your character but one 
trait of which I have reason to complain, and which is this : that you 
invariably take a too charitable view of the moral delinquencies of those 
around you. If you cannot conceive any actual excuse, you are sure 
to find something in extenuation. You are too good to live in this 
world: that's the only fault I have to find with you If you had the 
absolute ridey you would Avrest the sword from the hand of justice, and 
administer nothing but mercy." 

" Cotherstone Grange is the place for compliments, after all," observed 
Sylvester. 

" Nay, but it's the truth," resumed the reverend gentleman. " It is 
invariably the case. If she were to fill the ofiice of chief magistrate— 
an office for which she is not by nature qualified — ^we should have all 
mercy and no justice. You perceive she endeavours to palliate the in- 
solence of this man, even after he has had the effrontery to state that 
he'll be at * the Crumpet' at nine, and to intimate clearly that he expects 
you to meet him!" 

" Are you sure," said Aunt Eleanor, as Sylvester left the room smil- 
ing — " quite sure that this poor unhappy man is not insane?" 

" There you are again, my dear Eleanor! He is not insane. Besides, 
he's a bad man. He never comes to church : there's no religion in him.'* 

" Is not that a pjvof of his insanity?" 

This puzzled the reverend gentleman. He felt unable to get over it. 
He, therefore, smiled, and kissed Aunt Eleanor, and exclaimed — 

" Grod bless you, my dear: you are a kind, good creature! We'll say 
no more about it." 

This defeat, however, did not at all interfere with that which the re- 



278 8TLVE8TEB SOUND 

verend gentleraau conceived to lie his duty. He waa still reiohred to 
speuk to Oliadiali on the subject; and in puimtance of ihia resohitioiiy 
he, on .sc-cing liini with Pokey in the course of the mormiig, rode up to 
him, with an ap])ro]n'iate expression of severity. 

"Horc conies Ted," said Obadiah, as the reverend gentlenuun ap- 
proached. ^* I wonder what he*s up to? There^s somethix^ in tiie wind, 
safe. He's coming to talk to you.^' 

" Or to you," obser\'ed Pokey. 

<<To me! He knows ])etter: I should just like to catch him at it 
Wouldnt I walk in!" 

"Mr. Drant," said the reverend gentleman, solemnly, as Pokey 
touched his hat, and passed on, '* I am desirous of having a word with 
you." 

" Very well, sir," returned Obadiah, who didn't at the moment feel 
exactly self-possessed. " What is it, sir?" 

"Is this your handwriting?" demanded the reverend gentleman, pro- 
ducing the letter containing the song. 

" Yes, sir: that's my hand," replied Obadiah. 

" Then, sir, let me ask, how you dared to send a letter of this descrip- 
tion to Mr. Sound, accompanied, too, by this low trashy song.** 

" / can see nothing low and trashy about it." 

" It is low and trashy ; and if it were not, how dared you presume, 
sir, to send it to him?" 

" I presumed, sir, to send it to him, because he wished me to do so." 

"What, sir!— what!" 

" Because he liked it so much, when he heard me sing it, that he 
asked me to let him have a copy." 

"Is it possible that you can stand here, sir, and look me in the face, 
and unblushingly tell me such a falsehood as that?" 

" It is not a falsehood. I sent it at his own request.'* 

" Have you forgotten the fate of Ananias? Have you no care for 
your immortal soul? Why do you not come to church, sir?" 

" That has got nothing to do with the song. Let's settle that point 
of the compass first. I say that he, boney fide, asked me to let him 
have a copy of * Old England!' " 

" When, sir?" 

" Why, last night?" 

" And where?" 

"At the Crumpet!" 

" Are you mad?" 

" Not a bit of it! I suppose I know whether he was there or not? 
My mind don't amalgamate to such an extent, neither, as not to know 
that!" 

" Do you mean then, solemnly to assert that he, Mr. Sound, was with 
you there last night?" 

" To be sure I do! He tvas there last night, and stood brandy-and- 
water all round, like a fructifying trump as he is!" 

" Like a what?" 

" Like a fructifying trump! a good boney fide fellow! He's worth a 



THE SOMNAMBULIST. 279 

million of your proud upstart muck, wliicli turn up their noses at honest 
men, because they don't belong to the pauper aristocracy, which sucks 
so many millions out of their vitals." 

" I don't understand this language," said the reverend gentleman ; 
" nor was I speaking of the aristocracy. I wished to know whether 
you meant to assert that Mr. Sound was in company with you last 
night." 

" Well, sir ; he was. I do mean to assert it." 

" And to that assertion you intend to adhere?" 

" Of course, I do ; because it's the truth." 

" Have a care ! Have a care!" cried the reverend gentleman. " You 
may not live to repent. You know, sir, that he was 7iot there." 

" I know that he was." 

" I do not believe it." 

" I can't help that, sir. No man in Europe can help it. He was 
there, sir, whether you believe it or not. Why he was there till past 
twelve!" 

"Monstrous!" exclaimed the reverend gentleman, who really felt ap- 
palled. " I tremble for you! You are incorrigible!" 

" Well !'* said Obadiah. " Have it your own way, if you will. I know 
what I know, sir; and that's all about it. I wsh you a very good 
morning." 

The reverend gentleman was so much amazed, that before he knew 
either what to say or how to act, Obadiah had got a considerable dis- 
tance ; and even when he had somewhat recovered his faculties, he con- 
tinued to sit as motionless as Irresolution's statue. Eventually, how- 
ever, he turned his horse's head, and rode on to the Common, with the 
view of reflecting upon all that had passed, and deciding on what was 
then best to be done; "while Obadiah proceeded to the Crumpet and 
Crown, to tell the news to his friends, who at once crowded round him. 

" WeU I" cried Pokey. " WeU ! Well ! What did he want?" 

" Want!" exclaimed Obadiah. " He wanted to do as good as swear 
me out of my Christian name." 

" Well, but what was his object?" demanded Legge. 

" Why his object, my boy, was to make me believe that young Mr. 
Sound was not with us last night drinking brandy-and-water." 

" What!" cried Legge, angrily! " did you tell him that he was?" 

" Of course I did; and stuck to it too, like a Briton." 

" What right,^^ cried Legge, " had you to tell him that? Do you 
think that he wanted them to know where he was? Can no man come 
to enjoy himself for an hour without its being known all over the place, 
you chattering fool? Had he even come in here and drank his glass to 
himself, you would have had no right to name it, but as he behaved so 
handsomely, and as you mth the rest partook — and freely too-— of that 
which he ordered and paid for, you ought to be aahamed of yourself," 

" Shame, shame," cried the rest. " Shame, shame: it is shameful!'* 

" Stop a bit, my boys," said Obadiah ; " stop a bit. Pll soon fruc- 
tify your ideas on that point." 

"Fructify!" cried Legge, who was deeply indignant. "It would 



280 STLVEStEB SOUKD 

serve you right if we fructified your ideas, and that through the horses 
pond." 

" So it would— so it would," cried all the rest. " It's shamed; that 
it is — shameful I" 

" Now you're all about five-and-fii^enfy minutes too fast," said Oba- 
diah. " If you will but just listen, I'll clear it all up—" 

" You'll never clear that up," exclaimed Legge, " / know." 

" Now just look you here. Me and Pokey was walking and talking 
together — ^well, who should come up but Teddy Rouse. * Mr. Drant,' 
says he, * I want to speak to you.' * Very well,' says I, * what's Ae 
row?' 'Is this your handwriting?' says he. *Yes,' says I, *it is.' 

* Then, how dare you,' says he, to send this letter with such muck as 
that to Mr. Sound?' " 

" What letter — ^what muck?" demanded Legge. 

" Why he asked me last night— didn't he — ^to give him a copy of my 
song? Very well then; I wrote it out and sent it this morning, and 
that with a very polite note. Well. * How dare you to send it to him?' 
says he. * Because,' says I, * he wished me to do so.' * When?' says he. 
'Last night,' says I. * Where?* says he. *At the Crumpet,' says L 

* It's false,' says he, *he wasn't there.' * I know better,' says I, * I know 
he was, and stood brandy-and-water all round,' and so we went on ; he 
sajdng it was false, and I saying it was true, until I became so disgusted 
that I left him." 

** Disgusted I" cried L^ge. " You're a fool. What did you want to 
stick to it for, when you found that he wouldn't believe it. You'd 
no right to say that Mr. Sound was here at all. 

" Well, but how did the parson get hold of the letter?" said Quocks, 
" that's what / want to know." 

" Oh, I see how it was," returned Legge. " This fool sent the letter 
to the cottage, and it fell into the hands of Mrs. Sound, who showed it 
to Rouse, as a matter of course: and a pretty mess the young man's 
got into, no doubt." 

" Well now," said Quocks, * I don't know, but I don't think there's 
anything disgraceful in the fact of a man coming here to enjoy himself 
for an hour— -do you?" 

" No, Quocks," said Legge, ** there may be nothing disgraceful in the 
fact, but we must look at it with reference to his position. You would 
not like to frequent the beer-shop behind." 

" No, 1 certainly should not." 

"And if you did — although there might be nothing disgraceful in 
the fact — ^your friends would in all probability think that you should 
aim at something higher. That young man enjoyed himself here last 
night; if he hadn't, he wouldn't have stopped so long; but his friends 
— and more especially Mr. Rouse — doubtless think that it is not a 
proper place for him to come to. We must look at the position a man 
occupies." 

"I see," said Quocks; " I see. Oh I I see." 

" But I don't see," cried Obadiah. 

" You don't see," said Legge j contemptuously. " You can see to make 



TttE SOMNAMBULIST. 281 

mischief. I wouldn't have had it known that that young man was here 
standing brandy-and-water — as you told Rouse — for five times the 
money he spent." 

" Well, but Teddy didn't beUeve me." 

" You say that you stuck to it." 

*' And so I did. But he thought it was false: and he thinks so still. 
Mr. Sound, no doubt, denied it. And — as it proved — ^he believed him 
and not me." 

" If I were sure of that, I'd deny it, too," said Quocks. 

" And so would I," cried Pokey. 

" Well, but how can we manage it?" said Legge. " How is it to be 
done?" 

This was the question : and while they were engaged in discussing it, 
the reverend gentleman — who, after due deliberation, had decided on 
calling upon Legge, with the view of ascertaining whether Obadiah's 
statement was, or was not, false — rode up to the door. 

" I've been told," said he, when Legge went out to speak to him, " that 
young Mr. Sound was here drinking last night." 

" Who told you that, sir?" demanded Legge. 

"Drant: Obadiah Drant." 

"Obadiah Drant!" said Legge, with a contemptuous expression; 
" why you surely don't believe a word he says." 

"Well, I certainly did not believe that," returned the reverend gen- 
tleman: " and I told him at the time that I didn't believe it; and yet I 
thought it strange — ^very strange— that he should adhere to his assertion 
so finnly." 

" Oh, he'll assert anjrthing, sir: that man will. His word's not worth 
a rush. Had he spread a report that you were here drinking last night, 
sir, I shouldn't have been in the slightest degree astonished.'* 

" Why, he must be a very bad man I" 

" He's not a bit too good, sir: depend upon that. But no one takes 
notice of anything that he says, and I'm quite sure that nothing that he 
can say is worth your attention." 

" Well: he's a bad man — a very bad man. I am sorry to find that 
there's a man in my parish so bad. Good day, Mr. Legge." 

" I wish you good day, sir." 

" If you see that wretched man, tell him, from me, that I hold his 
conduct in abhorrence." 

" I will, sir," replied Legge; " depend upon that.'* 

The reverend gentleman then rode towards the cottage, and Legge 
returned to the room, in which he found Obadiah stcured by Quocks^ 
Bobber, and Pokey. The cause of this may be briefly explained. Oba- 
diah had heard all that passed outside; and, conceiving himself to be 
an ill-used man, became so highly indignant, that he was about to rush 
out and spoil all, with a view to his own complete justification, when 
Quocks and Bobber seized him, and held him in a chair, while brave 
Pokey stopped up his mouth with a towel. 

" Welir he exclaimed, on being released, "you've done it. HavevCt 
you? Tou amalgamated nicely 1 DidnH you? What! do you think 



Stt 8TLVKSTKA 90UMD 

that Fui goiog to stand this? Do you imagine that I'm going to be made 
the scapegoat of that young wretch in this here sort of nuuinar?'' 

*' I>o you call this gratitude/' cried Pokey, *' after drinkinigliifl brandy- 
and-water?" 

'' As for you," said Obadiah, with a most ferocious aspect, '* IVe as 
great a mind to give you a regular boney fide good welting as I ever had 
in my life, mind you that. If you ever touch me again— -if you ever 
dare to lay so much as a finger upon mc, I'll welt you till you can't see 
out of yoiu: eyes." 

" Well, but how is this?'' said Legge. " Haven't I heard you say, five 
hundred times, that you cared no more for Teddy Rouse than you did 
for Bobby Peel?" 

'' Nor do I. Care for him I Why should I care? What's Teddy 
Rouse to me? Care for him, indeed!" 

'^ Well it appears that you do care for him, or you wouldn't be so 
angry at what I said." 

*'Do you think that I'm going to have my character taken away 
then—" 

" Yoiu- what !"-— exclaimed Quocks— '* your charactei*? If you ean 
find a man who can take away your character, pay him weU: he'U de- 
serve all you give him." 

" Indeed I I owe you nothing: so you needn't call out so loud. But 
if any man in Europe lays the function to his soul that I'll stand being 
made the greatest liar that ever walked, he's mistaken." 

^' Well, the thing's done now," said L^ge. 

" Yes, it 18 done. But Fll call on Ted." 

" And being done, I think we'd better drop it." 

" Drop it! Yes it's all mighty fine to say drop it; but I won't let it 
drop. And you — ^you little ^vretch" — ^he added, turning to Bobber, 
" for two pins, I'd tan you!" 

" Tan me /" cried Bobber, who was not at all afraid of him ; ** you 
talk like an old woman generally, but now you are talking like a 
child." 

"Well come," said Quooks, " it's all over now: let's drink and for- 
get it." 

Legge brought in some beer, and endeavoiffed to pacify the incensed 
one, but Obadiah threatened still to call upon " Ted." As, however, he 
seldom carried his threats into execution, Legge had not the slightest 
fear of his doing so in this case, well knowing that as "Ted" never gave 
him an order, he was a man whom — above all other men alive— Oba- 
diah abhorred. 

Meanwhile, the reverend gentleman was anxiously waiting an oppor- 
tunity of explaining to Sylvester the result of his interview with Oba- 
diah, whom he conceived to be utterly irreclaimable. It was evening, 
however, before an opportunity occurred; but when it did occur, the 
reverend gentleman embraced it, and said— 

"Well, I've seen that wretched manl" 

" What the author of ' Old England?' " 

" Yes: I've had a long talk with him." 



TH£ S0MNAMBUU8T. 283 

" Have you? Well, what did he say?" 

" Why he absolutely had the audacity to tell me that you were at the 
public-house Avith him last night, drinking brandy-and-water till past 
twelve o'clock." 

"Whatr 

'^ It's a positive fact, that he declared that you were there, treating 
them all, as he said, * like a trump I' " 

" The animal! Why I went to bed soon after ten.^ 

" He moreover told me that his reason for sending that song to you 
this morning was, that you heard him sing it last night, and admired it 
so much, that you begged of him to send you a copy of it." 

" Oh, the man must be mad. / never heard him sing! But, of 
course, you don't imagine for a moment that I was there?" 

"I have ascertained beyond all doubt that you were not: for, in 
order to satisfy my mind upon that point, I called upon L»^ge— " 

" And, of course, he told you — " 

'^Ohl yes, at once: and, like a sensible man, treated the whole 
matter with contempt. Why, he absolutely told me that he should not 
have felt astonished if this man had spread a report that / was there 
drinking brandy-and-water! Why, you know this is a very awiul state 
for a man's mind to be in!" 

" The man mmt be insane.'* 

"He is wicked, sii^— desperately wicked! Such conduct can be as- 
cribed to wickedness alone. But I'll not give him up : I must not give . 
him up. I must 7iot suffer his soul to be lost." 

" Why, let me see," said Sylvester, thoughtfully : " you were here last 
night till nearly ten o'clock." 

" It wanted twelve minutes to ten when I left." 

" I was in bed and asleep in less than half an hour after that." 

" Oh! the idea of your being there is perfectly ridiculous 1 But that 
man must be reclaimed. You see it's dreadful, when you come to reflect 
upon it — ^positively dreadful! I imderstand his word is not at any time 
to be taken ; that it's not worth a rush ; that he never speaks the truth, 
and that no one believes him. Why, you know this continual com- 
mission of sin must, of necessity, have its effect. However, if he is to 
be reclaimed, I'll reclaim him." 

Sylvester — ^notwithstanding the reverend gentleman had thus ex- 
pressed his conviction that he was not the previous night at the Crumpet 
and Crown — reflected deeply upon all that he had heard in connexion 
^yith the idea of his being a somnambulist, and the immediate result of 
that reflection was the confirmation of his suspicion. 

" And yet, thought he, subsequently, " Legge must know whether I 
was there or not; and as he says that I was not there, I have a right to 
infer that the statement of this Drant is false. Besides, how is it possi* 
ble that I could have been there? The string was roimd my ande when 
I awoke this morning, precisely as I tied it round last night, and, of 
course, the idea of my having been able to leave the room with that on, 
or eveifi to get out of bed, is absurd. It is oertainly strange that this 
repoirt sl)ould have been circulated just at this time. But then the fact 



284 StLVESTSB fiOtJND. 

of its being strange affords no proof. Wlien suspicions of any descrip- 
tion have been engendered, the slightest occurrences tend to confim 
thein. I shall now be apt, doubtless, to attribute every circumstance 
that occurs to this imagined somnambulism, as readily as a non-profes- 
sional man wlio, on reading a medical work, conceives Uiat he has tiie dis- 
ease described. I must, notwithstanding, be satisfied ; and until I am 
satisfied, FU not only tie the string to my ancle every night, but Pll lock 
my room door, and hide the key." 

Had Sylvester referred to his purse— out of which he had paid for 
the brandy-and-water — ^it might have thrown a little more light upon 
the subject; but this didn't occur to him: he tried to believe that Oba- 
biah's assertions were utterly false, and on retiring that night, he locked 
the door, placed the key in his writing desk, locked that, and then put 
it under the bed. 

But this was of no me at all. In less than an hour after he had fallen 
aslcop, he released his ancle, dressed himself, got the key out of the desk, 
opened the door, and left the house with the utmost deliberation; and 
yet, m the morning, when he awoke, he found his ancle secured, the key 
in his desk, and the desk itself in precisely the same place as that in 
which he had the previous night left it. 

And thus he acted, night after night — adjusting the string and hiding 
the key, which he foimd and hid again, without having, when awake, 
even the most remote idea of the fact — but beyond this nothing at all 
worth recording occurred till the following Tuesday. 

Ou that day, Cotherstone Fair was held, and gaiety was in the ascen- 
dant. Legge had, as usual, erected a booth — ^in a paddock adjoining 
his house — for dancing; and while the girls of the village, with their 
pink and blue streamers, were laughing and clapping their hands for 
joy, and cracking nuts, and promenading, and glancing at their sweet- 
hearts, in all the pride of youth and rustic beauty; the men were 
drinking and joking, and smoking their pipes, and apparently somewhat 
more happy than princes. 

Legge, morevcr, had produced prolific germs of amusement ; and these 
prolific genns were chemises, shawls, scarfs, and a couple of fine legs of 
mutton. 

The chemises were to be run for — and so were the shawls and scarfs 
— ^but the mutton was to be climbed for, by those whose ambition might 
prompt them to go to the pole. 

These delights were, however, reserved till the evening, for Legge 
knew something of human nature. He had kept that house nearly 
twenty years! he, therefore, cannot be supposed to have been uncon- 
scious of the way in which the house had kept him. No: the prizes 
were exhibited throughout the day. None could think of leaving until 
they had been won ; and while all beheld them with fond anticipations, 
they panted for pleasure, and drank more beer. 

Anxious to mtness the amusements of the people, Sylvester himself 
walked through the village immediately after he had dined, and as 
Ol){Kliah, from one of the windows of " The Crumpet" saw him — ^for the 
first time since the night of the brandy-and-water — ^he rushed out of 



TH£ SOMNAMBULIST. 285 

the house, and, having followed him for a time, touched his hat respect- 
fully, and asked him how he was. 

" Quite well," replied Sylvester, who had forgotten him; " quite." 

" Come, sir, to see the pleasures of the poverty-stricken?" observed 
Obadiah, who was not a man to be easily shaken off. 

"The people do not appear to be poverty-stricken," returned Syl- 
vester. " All whom 1 have seen look contented and happy." 

" Ah !" exclaimed Obadiah ; " thoughtlessness ! It's nothing but that, 
sir; and ignorance. If they knew their power, they wouldn't be as 
they are." 

" Would the knowledge of their power, then, render them more happy?" 

"I allude to their position, sir: that's what I allude to: I mean that 
ihey wouldn't be in such a position. They would take higher ground, 
sir." 

" What ground do you imagine they would take?" 

" What ground, sir! Why, they'd stand up for their rights!" 

" Have they not their rights?" 

" How can the poor have their rights, sir? How is it possible?" 

" I conceive it to be quite possible for the poor to have their rights as 
well as the rich." 

" But if men had their rights, sir, they could not be poor." 

"Indeed! Why — why could they not?" 

" Because the rich would have to divide their riches with them." 

"Oh! Aye! That's it! I see!" cried Sylvester, who began to be 
rather amused. " Then all who have their rights must be equally rich?" 

" Of course, sir! It's one of the laws of nature." 

" Well, now, do you know, I wasn't aware of that?" 

" Indeed ! Well, that's strange, too. But don't you see now that it 
must be?" 

" Well, but suppose that a division were to take place to-day, and that 
you were to spend your share to-night, how would you stand to-morrow?" 

" Why, of course, if I'd spent it, I couldn't have it." 

" Then, you couldn't have your rights." 

"Aye! but that's altogether a different thing. We weren't speaking 
of spending our shares." 

"We were speaking of wealth being equally divided — a state of 
things which couldn't last an hour — and, as you advanced as a propo- 
sition, that men could not be poor who had their rights, I put a case 
which, I apprehend, proved that men might have their rights, and yet 
be poor." 

" Yes, sir, but—" 

" Do you admit that?" 

" But were there two Adams?" 

" Nay, keep to the point." 

" Fm coming to it — ^fructifying right direct to the point." 

"Fructifying!" thought Sylvester, who thought that he had heard 
that word ill-used before. 

" The question is," continued Obadiah, " were there or were there 
not two Adams?" 



S86 8TLVB8TBR SOUND 

" We read but of one." 

" Was there an Adam connected with the aristocmcy, and an Adam 
pledged to support the eternal principles of the people 1^ 

^* I have always understood that when Adam was created, there was 
neither an aristocracy tior a people.** 

^' No ; but I was only just going to say, if there was no aristocracy in 
those days, why should there be an aristocracy now? an aristocracy 
which lives upon the vitals of the people, and sucks a matter of two 
hundred millions a-year from the sweat of the poor man's brow. Did 
Nature ever make an aristocracy?" 

"Yes." 

" Never in this world.*' 

" The aristocracy of intellect is Nature's own." 

"Aye! but that's altogether a different thing: we weren't speaking of 
the aristocracy of intellect— that's a spark from heaven's anvil, struck 
to enlighten tne world ; like a boney fide star which shoots to another 
and tells it all it knows. We were speaking of the aristocracy of 
wealth — ^the aristocracy of corruption — ^the aristocracy of plunder — 
the profligate, pandering, puppet-show, pudding-headed, pompous, aris- 
tocracy— <firf Nature ever make that?" 

" Do you speak of the aristocracy of England?" 

"Of course!" 

" Then what, I ask, do you know of that aristocracy?" 

"What do I know of them! — ^what! Are they not a parcel of plun- 
dering, pandering, arrogant — " 

"Stop," said Sylvester. "Language of that description tells only 
"with a mob — men of sense despise it. The vulgar have been taught to 
believe that arrogance forms one of the chief characteristics of the 
aristocracy. They have yet to learn that the nearer we approach the 
apex of civilised society, tlie nearer we approach the perfection of civi- 
lised simplicity. But you appear to have lost sight of the point from 
which we started, and to which I imagined you were about to return." 

" What point was that?" 

" EquaUty." 

"Just so. Well; don't you think it monstrous that some should 
have so much, sir, while others have so little?" 

" Why that depends entirely upon circumstances." 

" Well, but just look you here, sir ; you see that man there, sir, in 
the smock-frock — ^liim that's got a pipe in his mouth, sir." 

"Yes— well?" 

" Well, sii', what do you think he has a-week?" 

" Ten shillings, perhaps.'* 

" Five, sir. No more than five." 

"Is that a fact?" 

" I know it well, sir. Perhaps you wouldn't mind if I called him?" 

" Certainly not! I should like to speak to him." 

" You won't find much intellect about him ; he hasn't been fructified 
to any amalgamating extent. Dick !** 

Dick stopped as if he had some remote idea of his having been called, 




//•--/..^/..^,.,.../ .^,^/^., ^/^^^^^^ 



THE SOMNAMBULIST. 287 

and turning round witli about as much velocity as a man who is heavily 
ironed would turn, he had some slight notion that some one stood there 
whose face he had somewhere seen before. 

"Dick," cried Obadiah again, "here!" 

A new idea seemed to have entered Dick's brains, and that idea was 
that he knew Obadiah. He therefore took the pipe out of his mouth 
and approached; but when he saw Sylvest<3r, he didn't know exactly 
whether he ought to take off his hat or not. 

" Well, Dick, how goes it?" inquired Obadiah. 

" Oh ; doon knoo, sir, mooch aboot the seame." 

"How are wages in this part of the country?" inquired Sylvester. 

" Bad^ sir," replied Dick. " Very bad, indeed." 

" This is a fiiend of mine, Dick," said Obadiah: " and he seemed to 
be fructified when I told him that you hadn't ten shillings a week!" 

" Teh, sir !— *IVe only foive ! Hard loins that, sir ! — ^foive shillin' aweek. " 

"Well, but what do you do with five shillings a week?" 
r " Why it ani*t t6o mooch to spend, is it, sir?" 
■■■ "No: but how do you manage to get rid of it?" 

"Oh, I never have not the leasest trouble aboot that. I'll tell 'ee, 
sir, hoo I manage. First, then — jist 'ee keep count— I pays a shil- 
lin* a week for me lodgin'g. Well, that's one shillin' isn't it? Well, 
then, I has a stone o' flour a week: that's two-an'-threepence. How 
mooch is that together? Two-an'-threepence an* a shillin': that's 
three-an'-threepence. Well, twopence tie bakin', an' penny the 
yeast — that's threepence — that's three-an'-sixpence. Threc-an'- 
sixpence, well; then I have two poound of flet cheese, to eat wi' 
me bread, at threepence a poond, that's sixpence. Three-an'-six- 
pence an' sixpence moor is foor shillin'. Well! then I can't do ^vithout 
Aa//-a-pint o' beer a day — that arn't too mooch is it? — well, a penny a 
half-pint, seven days in the week, that's sevenpence. Sevenpence an' 
foor shiUin's, that's foor-an'-sevenpence. I arn't mooch of a scholard, 
boot that's soon counted. Foor-an'-sevenpence. Well, I moost have a 
shirt washed once a week, an' a han'keroher, an' a pair o' stockin's, that 
moost be mended — I never see sich devils to goo into holes— well, the 
washin' an' mendin' takes away the other fippence, an' that's hoo I 
meake ends meet." 

" Well, but how do you manage when your clothes are worn out?" 

" I gets a trifle more in the harvest time, sir: that's how I manages 
that." 

"I see. But have men in this part of the country, 'in general, no 
more than five shillings a week?" 

"Oh! 'ees, sir: soom have ten, and soom twelve! Boot I'm a bit 
of a cripple, you sec, sir: that's where it is: I can't work noo as I 
used to could." 

Sylvester gave him half-a-cro"wn, which so astonished Dick that he 
burst into tears. 

" Can you Avonder at the fires after that?" cried Obadiah, as Dick, Avith 
a heart full of gratitude, lefl them. 

" But this is a peculiar case," observed Sylvester. " You hear that the 



288 8TLV£8TEn SOUND 

wngtii? avoragc from ten to twelve shillings. This man is a cripple, and 
can't ilo much work.** 

** Wi'll, Imt have wo ^)t no lords cripples? Place him in juxtaposi- 
tion with a lord, and — ** 

" Juxtapusitiou!** echoed Sylvester. " Your name is — ** 

*^ Drant, sir: Obadiah Drant. You recollect me, sir, don't you?" 

<' It is to you, I beli0\'e, that I am indebted for a song?^ 

" Exactly, sir: I did myself the honour of sending a copy of it as you 
requested." 

*' As I requested! I am not conscious of .iaving made any such re- 
quest." 

<' What! don't you remember, the other night, at the Onimpeti when 
you heard me sing that song — ^ 

'^ / never heard you sing the song." 

" Oh, yes, you did sir! when you were there the other nu^t— «yoa 
recoUect!" 

" But I was not tliere the other night. I understand that yoa fold 
Mr. Rouse that I was — ^" 

" Well, I'm sorry ior that, sir. I wish I hadn't mentioned it now." 

'* But how came you to think of such a falsehood?" 

" I'm sorry it was named ; but, of course, you know it wasat a ftliM 
hood." 

*' I know that iiwas a falsehood, and a most atrocious fiilsehood, too." 

" Well, but you know you were there." 

" What! Are you a lunatic?" 

"A lunatic? No!" 

" I thought you were," returned Sylvester, calmly. " As you are 
7wtf I wish to have no farther communication with you." 

" Well, sir; but — i«;/<a^'— -do you mean — ^ 

"I have nothing more to say," observed Sylvester, who waved his 
hand, and, with a look of contempt, left Obadiah astounded! 

The sports proceeded; the mutton was gained; the chemises, the 
shawls, and the scarfs, were won ; and, when night came on, the bootii 
was illumined, and dancing commenced, and was kept up with spirit 
till twelve, when a cry of "the ghost!" was raised. 

The men rushed instantly out of the booth, and the girls shrieked 
and fainted by dozens, while the " ghost" walked leisurely through the 
village, fearfully shunned by all. 

No one approached it. All kept aloof. The stoutest hearts shrank 
back appalled, and the ghost had the road to itself. 

The night was dark : not a star could be seen ; and when the ghost 
reached the chesnut-trees, beneath which all was gloom, the multitude 
breathed: but lo! it turned and walked through the village again. 

Horror filled each manly breast, and all was consternation. But the 
ghost seemed to treat the whole throng with contempt. It walked up 
and do\vn just as long as it liked, and then vanished, they knew neither 
how nor where. 



i 




6:.. .. '/ ..^ 



THE SOMNAMBULIST. 289 

CHAPTER XXXII. 

SYLVESTER IS RECALLED TO TOWN. 

When Sylvester had ascertained in the morning that the ghost had 
been seen in the village again, he felt greatly relieved, having found the 
string, on awaking, round his ancle as usual, the key in the desk, and the 
desk beneath the bed. He held it, then, to be abundantly clear that he 
couldn't be tlie " ghost," and was about to repudiate the idea of his 
being a somnambulist, when lie received from his solicitor a letter re- 
quiring his presence in town. This had the effect of reinspiring 
suspicion. lie might be a somnambulist, and yet not the " ghost." It 
was possible — nay, when he reflected upon the serious accusation of Sir 
Charles — he could not but think it highly probable. But how was the 
thing to be proved? That was the question still. He had in vain tried 
to prove it himself; and, therefore, felt bound to communicate his sus- 
picion to another. This he eventually resolved to do ; but as he had to 
go to London immediately, he thought it best to conceal it, at least for 
the present, from his aunt and her reverend friend, and on his arrival in 
town to consult Tom Delolme. 

He accordingly communicated only the contents of the letter then; 
and no sooner had his aunt and the reverend gentleman become perfectly 
conscious of his intention to leave them that morning, than the cottage 
became a theatre of excitement. Cook, Judkins, and Mary were in- 
stantly summoned. Judkins was directed to get the phaeton ready; 
cook received instructions to make up a large fire for the purpose of 
airing the shirts ; and while Mary went "with her mistress to ransack the 
drawers, the reverend gentleman, with an infinite profundity of ex- 
pression, was cutting sand\viches, in a peculiarly scientific style. 

By virtue of this admirable division of labour, the shirts, within the 
hour, were aii*ed and packed up — the sandwiches were enveloped in 
sheets of Bath paper — and the phaeton appeared at the gate. There 
had been, however, no time to impress upon Sylvester the necessity for 
his sending them every information having reference to the trial, at 
which they both of coiu*se intended to be present. Aimt Eleanor, 
therefore, hastily slipped on her things, and entered the phaeton with 
her reverend friend, with the view not only of seeing Sylvester to the 
coach, but of enforcing this necessity by the way. 

As they passed through the village, Obadiah and Pokey were, as usual, 
with Legge, at the Crumpet and Crown, and the very moment Obadiah 
saw them, he exclaimed — 

" There, there you are, my Britons ! That's the dodge — ^that's it. 
I'll bet you what you like of it : up to something, safe. Don't you see 
the portmanter? Going to the coach, perhaps, to get rid of that boney 
fide young fibber." 

" What do you mean by a young fibber?" demanded Legge.^ 

X 



290 STLTimE WOfUMD 

" What do I mean? What ! Didn't he have the howdaciooB in^rn- 
dence, while we were fructifying yesterday in the fiur, to tell me plump 
to my very teeth, that he wasn't here at all the other night!" 

"Did he though!" said Pokey. 

" Did he? Did he not? FU back him against life to lie. There's 
nothing like him in all flesh. He beats Peter the Great hollow, and he 
could lie a little." 

<* Some one was with him perhaps,** observed L^ge. 

" Not a bit of it! Not so much as half a one. Therewe were alone, 
quietly fructifying about equal rights, when, says he, all at once, saji he, 

* Isn't your name Drant?' Says I, ' Drant is my name,* says I ; ' Obadiah 
Drant.' * You sent me a song,' says he, * didn't you, this morning?' * I 
did,' says I, 'according to promise.* * According to promise,* says he; 

* what promise?' * WTiat promiser says I; 'what, dicmt you reooUeet 
that I promised to send it?' ' You promised me nothing of the soori,' 
says he. 'What!' says I; 'what, not thecopy of the song you heard me 
sing?' * I never heard you sing a song,' sajrs he. ' What,' says I, *not 
the other night at the Crumpet?' * The Crumpet,' says he; * I yras never 
at the Crumpet but once in my life, and that was in the morning.' * The 
morning,' says I ; ' I don't speak about morning, I speak about night' 

* I never was there of a night in my life,' says he, Tm blessed if he 
didn't, pliunp. Well; this kind of doubled me up: so, looking at him 
fierce, says I, * What !— do you mean that?' ' Mean it,' says he ; ' ^ course 
I do. You told Mr. Rouse,' says he, * that I was there, drinking brandy- 
and-water.' ' Well, I'm sorry for that,' says I; * but you know that you 
was there' ' I know that I was not/ says he ; * and however you came 
to think of such a falsehood, I can't imagine.' ' A falsehood,' says I. 

* Yes, a falsehood,* says he. ' But you don't,' says I, *mean to tell me 
that you wasn't that night at the Crumpet at aU?' * I mean to tell you 
that you hioio I was not there,' says he ; no better and no worse. Well, 
this staggered me a little above a bit. * But,' says I, * do you really 
mean to mean what you say?' * Of course,' says he, indignantly; 'I 
was ?io^ there, and you know it.' Upon which I was so boney lidely dis- 
gusted that I left him to his own fructifying reflections. Now, what do 
you think of that— eh? What do you think of it?" 

" Why it certainly is strange," returned Legge, "that he should deny 
it to you, there being no one else present.'' 

" Strange! It's stunning I" 

" Well, but didn't he laugh at the time?" inquired Pokey. 

" Laugh ! He looked, for all the world, as if there wasn't a laugh in 
him. 1 never, in all my bora days, ^\^tnessed anything like it. I'll 
back him against nature. I never saw a fellow tell a lie "with so much 
liberty. lie's the swell to swear a man out of his christian name. 
There's no hesitation about hint: there's no such thing as faltejing 
— no such thing as a blush about him while he's at it. He'll lie 
like a lunatic, that fellow will. And there we see the force of ex- 
ample. He got it all from Teddy Rouse. Ted taught him — safe. I 
never saw two fellows lie so much alike. But when you come to look 
at it, isn't it disgusting to see a man like Ted — a man of his cloth-— a 



THE 80MNJJCBULI8T. 291 

man professing so much religion, teaching lads like that to lie? But 
then what can we expect from such a clerical lot of locusts? What can 
we expect when we allow them to suck here a matter of five hundred 
millions a year from the vitals of the poverty-stricken people? I 
say it serves us right: and, moreover than that, we ought to be served 
out ten thousand times worse. It's amazing to me that the people don't 
see this. As true as I'm alive, it makes my head turn quite round, 
when I think of their boney fide blindness. Is it a mite likely, do you 
think, that I'd stand it if I was the people alone? Do you think that 
I'd let them get fat upon me? Suppose I was the people — ^that's the 
way to put it — suppose that I was the whole of the people, do you think 
that I'd be swindled by a lot of pensioned paupers in this way? No! 
not a bit of it. I'll tell you what I'd do. In the first place, I'd send for 
the king, and Fd say to him, * Now then, I'll tell you what it is, old fellow : 
I'm not going to stand this sort of thing any longer, so I tell you. You 
must abdicate and cut it. I'm not going to allow you to rob me of fifty 
or sixty millions a-year in this sort of way. You've been amalgamating 
at a rare rate lately, and you ought to have saved money. If you have, 
why so much the better for you ; if you haven't, go and work for your living 
like an honest man. I want no king : what's the good of a king to me? 
What use are you — ^what do you do? I'm not going to support you in 
idleness any longer ; so that's all about it.' I'd then send for the minis- 
ters, and I'd say to them, * Gentlemen, it's all very fine, I dare say, but 
you have no more money from me. You've been feathering your nests 
to a fructifying extent, I've no doubt; but your valuable services are 
no longer required. I am the people; I can govern myself: at all events 
I've had enough of you ! therefore pack up your traps and be off.' 
Then I'd send for the bishops, but I'd make mighty short work of them ; 
and the same with the parsons ; I'd turn them all adrift. And as for 
the pensioners, * What!' I'd say, * /support a lot of paupers in the lazy 
lap of luxury? I wish you may get it. No! go to work, and earn an 
honest livelDiood. If you can't do that, apply to the parish. I dare 
say, indeed, I'm going to let a lot of lazy locusts live on my vitals in 
this sort of way. Be off ! and never let me set eyes on you again.' That 
would be the only way to work it. What should I want with a king and 
a lot of lords, what should I want with bishops, parsons, and pensioners? 
I wouldn't have them. I'd form a republic within myself, and I myself 
would govern myself. That's what I should do, if I were the whole people ; 
and that's just the way tlie people ought to do now. They should set to work , 
and act as one man, and send all the amalgamating oligarchies howling! 

" There's something in that," observed Pokey. 

" Yes, there is something in it," said Legge, who immediately left the 
room, smiling. 

"I believe you," piu'sued Obadiah, addressing Pokey alone: ^'^and 
I'm glad that you agree with me. I find that I shall fructify your ideas 
a little yet. Look you here. The thing lies in a nutshell. Just place 
yourself now in the juxtaposition of the people. You are the people. 
Very well. Now, do you want a king? Do you want a lot of lords, a my- 
riad (^bishops, and about fifty Bullions of parsons? Do you want them?*' 

X 2 



292 STLYESTEB SOUND 

"No, I can't say I do." 

" Do you want about a hundred thousand pensioned paupers picking 
your pocket of five-and-twenty million a year to live in luxury, and 
keep their carriages, and drive slap over you, and think nothing of it, if 
you don't get out of the way? Do you want them T^ 
" Certainly not." 

" Very weU, then. If you were the people, and you wouldn't want 
them, why should the people want them now?" 
" That's feasible: certamly, that's feasible." 
" Feasible! Doesn't it stand to reason?" 
" I must say it does." 

" The tiling, you see, only wants a little fructification in a simplified 
manner for every soul on earth to understand it. I'd undertake to make 
it clear to the meanest capacity; but then you see /can't travel about 
the country to open the eyes of the universal people, and the consequence 
is, they're on that important subject sand blind. They listen to parsons: 
what's the good of that? Is there a parson in all flesh who'U tell them 
what I've told you now? Not a bit of it. They know better. They 
know that if they were to fructify the ideas of the people in that way, it 
would open their eyes, and their object is to keep their eyes closed to 
all the abuses, and all the swindles, and all the corrupt dead robberies 
of those who live upon the sweat of the poor man's brow. Oh ! it's 
shocking when you come to look at the ignorance of the people — boney 
fidely shocking! If Billy the Conqueror could rise from his grave and 
talk over the matter \nth Peter the Great, they'd be right down asto- 
nished to find what the people — the ignorant people — ^will bear." 

" There's a good deal of ignorance about, I dare say," observed Pokey. 
" No doubt there's a good deal of ignorance." 

"A good deal of ignorance. It's stunning! Wliy, look at the lot of 
locusts now preying upon our vitals! Only look at them, and see what 
they cost! Will any man tell me that, if all those disgusting sums of 
money wliicli they swallow up were in the pockets of the people, they 
wouldn't be better off? Don't it stand to reason, that if one man has 
five hundred thousand a year, and five thousand men, as good as he is 
have nothing, the five thousand men would have a hundred a year each, 
if that money were equally divided?" 
" Yes : that's clear enough." 

" Clear enough ! I believe you. It is cleai' enough : and yet the j^ople 
can't see this. They can't see how they are plundered and oppressed 
and rode rough-shod over, and trodden imder foot. Not a bit of it. 
Tlieir ignorant ideas don't fructify in that way. Besides, do you think 
tliat if 1 were tlie people, I'd suffer myself to be ground to the earth by 
any such tiling as a National Debt?" 

*' Certainly," said Pokey, " that ought to be paid off." 
"Paid off! Do you know what you're talking about? Paid off! 
Send 1 may live! Why, do you know that if you take five hundred 
millions of miles of ground and cover it over with fifly-pound notes, you 
would not have enough, even then, to pay it off? I've seen it calculated : 
so there can be no mistake about that. Pave Europe with sovereigns 



f^E SOMNAMBULISM. 293 

and you wouldn't have enough. Pay it off! Sponge it! That*s the 
only way to pay it off." 

" What, and let them as has scraped a little money together suffer?" 

"Don't your ideas fructify? Wouldn't it be better for them after- 
wards?" 

" I don't see that." 

" Not see it! As true as I'm alive, you*re as blind as the rest. Don't 
you see that we should then have an equal division?" 

" Would the money I've got in the Savings' Bank be divided amongst 
them as hasn't got none?" 

" All, I tell you, would be equally divided." 

" Then I won't vote for that." 

" Wliat, not to have a share of the millions upon millions which the 
pauper aristocracy have got?" 

" It won't do," said Pokey; " I shouldn't be sui'e of that." 

" Not sme of it ! What's to prevent it?" 

" Many things might. I say many things might And * a bird in the 
hand is worth two in the bush.' " 

"Pokey, Pokey, I'm sorry to find you're a boney fide ignoramus still." 

" I don't care a button about what you say: I mean to look afi«r my 
money." 

" You mean to look after your money! Wliy you've no more pa- 
triotism in you than the ghost. By the bye, I mean to look after that 
swell to-night. I've made up my mind to that. / know who he is." 

"What! do you?" 

"/know the gentleman." 

" What! isn't it a ghost, then, after all?" 

" A ghost! Not a bit of it. No, it's a man.*' 

" Indeed! Is it any one / know?" 

" Oh yes ! you know him very well." 

"Who is he?" 

" Why, I didn't intend to say imtil I'd caught him ; but I don't mind 
telling you. It's Bob Potts." 

"Bob Potts! Lor, is it though? Bob Potts. Blow him, he's always 
up to something. But how do you know?" 

"Oh! I know all about it; but don't say a word. If it should come 
to his cars that I know him, he'll of course keep at home: therefore, 
don't say a syllable to any living soul." 

" Not a word. Trust to me. I'll not open my lips." 

" I'll cook the green goose of Mr. Bob Potts. I only want to catch 
him; and when I do,^ he won't play the game of 'ghost' again 
in a hurry. He's been carrjdng it on long enough ; and if I don't 
place him in a juxtaposition to make him ashamed of himself all his 
life, I'll eat grass, like a cow; therefore, mum!" 

Pokey again promised to be silent on the subject; and when Obadiah 
had explained to him the delicate minutise of the scheme he had con- 
ceived, they piu'ted on the most affectionate terms to meet again, with 
the view of ensnaring Bob Potts. 



294 sTLTBinrBB 0Oimi> 

CHAPTER XXXni. 

THE PROOF. 

Immediately on his arrival in town, Sylvester called on his friend 
Tom Delolme, who received him as usual with great cordiality, and 
was indeed happy to see him. The greeting, however, waa brief: for 
Sylvester's anxiety to commimicate the idea he had conceived^ prompted 
him to open the subject at once. 

" Tom," said he, " you know, I believe, something about somnambu- 
lism?" 

" Sobdabbulisb?" replied Tom. " Yes: I kdow pretty well all that 
is kdowd about the batter l" 

" Well, then, I wish to consult you on the subject; for I have a 
strong suspicion that Fm a somnambulist." 

" Dodsedsel** returned Tom. " You a sobdabbulist." 

" I really suspect that I am!" 

" Well! what idduced that suspiciod?" 

" Why, Tom, let me go where I may, mystery follows me. Some- 
thing of an extraordmary and unaccountable character is sure to occur, 
and that at night. If 1 go down to Cotherstone Grange a * ghost^ is 
certain to appear in the village: which * ghost' never appears there 
when 1 am away. I slept here, you will remember, just before I left 
town. Your sei-vant declared that he saw * a ghost* then." 

"I recollect. That * ghost' broke by pier-glass. I see. But have 
you doc other groudds for suspiciod?" 

" There have been innumerable occurrences for which I have been 
utterly unable to account ; but that which makes me more immediately 
anxious to ascertain whether I am in reality a somnambidist or not, is the 
approaching trial. Su' Charles, you know, declares that he saw me there, 
while his butler is fully prepared to swear it. Now, I am unconsciouB 
of having been there — perfectly unconscious ; and if I was there, to 
what but somnambulism can it be ascribed?" 

" I see : I see it all— clearly. You have dever beed discovered id a 
state of sobdabbidisb?" 

" Never." 

" Did you ever od awakidg fide yourself id ady stradge place, or id 
ady place id which you'd doe idea of beidg?" 

" Never : I have always, on awaking, foimd myself in bed." 

" Have you directed ady persod to watch you at all?" 

" No one has had ever the slightest idea of my having entertained 
this suspicion. You are the only man to whom I have breathed a 
syllable on the subject. I have been for some time endeavouring to 
prove the fact myself. I've tied strings to my ancle, locked my room* 
door, and hid the key." 



THX Sony uratJUST. 806 

^' Ah! that^s of doe use. You'd be certaid while asleep to ftde add 
hide the key agaid: that is, assubidg that you are a sobdabbulist. We 
bust see about this. If it be as you suspect, the proof will be highly 
ibportadt. We'll talk the batter over agaid by-add-bye. Add dow go 
up stairs, add have a wash. While you're gode, I'll ascertaid what w« 
have id the house to eat." 

Sylvester went up accordingly; and, on his return, found the table 
spread with cold chickens, beef, ham, and tongue, to the whole of which 
he did ample justice, and then had some coffee with Tom. 

The library was then resorted to, and all the books they could find 
having reference to somnambulism were consulted. This occupied the 
ndiole of the evening ; and it was at length decided that Sylvest^* should 
sleep that night in Tom's room, while Tom sat up in the room adjoining. 

The preliminaries having been thus arranged, Sylvester about twelve 
retired; and Tom took his seat at a table spread with books, cigars, and 
brandy-and-water. 

In order that he might at once hear the slightest noise, Tom left the 
door of his room open ; and, impressed with the importance of the proof 
desired, continued to listen with so much attention, that Sylvester eould 
not have moved imheard. 

From twelve till two o'clock all was still; but the clock had no sooner 
struck two, than Sylvester walked from one room to the other, and 
anxiously inquired if Tom had seen him. 

"Doe," replied Tom. "Doe, I've deither seed dor heard you: all 
has beed still up to this tibe!" 

" Then hadn't you better go to bed?" 

" Doe, I shall dot go to bed to dight! That I have bade up by bide 
to. Go to sleep agaid: sobethidg bay occur yet." 

'^ I should like to have one glass of brandy-and-water," said Sylvester, 
taking a seat at the table. 

" Well, have it, by boy." 

"And one cigar 1" 

" Oh I you'd better dot sboke." 

" I think I should enjoy it." 

" Well," returned Tom, who had not the slightest notion of Sylvester 
being asleep at the time ; " if that's the case, you'd better go add put od 
your clothes. You'll sood get cold if you sit without theb. 

Sylvester assented to this, and left the room ; and having dressed him- 
self partially, returned, filled his glass, lit a cigar, and began to smoke it. 

" It's a singtdar thing that this cannot be proved," observed Sylvester^ 
cahnly," isn't it?" 

" Why," replied Tom, " this is but the first attebpt^ We cad't have 
proof always the bobedt we wish it. It bay be proved yet, add that 
sood. We bust dot be ibpatiedt. I've just beed readidg here ad ex- 
traordidary case, that of a bricklayer's labourer, whose fellow-workbed 
kdew hib to sleep regularly four or five hours a day while at work, 
although the work was of so perilous a character. It s^pears that whed 
they first discovered this they were extrebely apprehedsive; but as the 
dovelty of the thidg wore away^ their apprehedsiods were subdued. His 



296 STLTmSB 80URD 

ebploybedt, of courss, codsisted id supplyidg the bricklajers wiih hods 
of bricks add bortar, which lie codveycd up ladders to the tope of houses 
while asleep, just as well add as safely as he did whed awake« He 
would attedd to all orders, cdter idto codversatiod, add receive add 
deliver messages while id this state. He could, moreover, whed 
awake, recogdise voices which he happeded to have heard while 
asleep, if ev^ the persods who spoke were the bost perfect stradgers. 
His fellow-workbed frequedtly tried hib, id order to set aside all 
idcreduhty, add dever kdew hib id ady sidgle idstadce to fail. He 
could tell the hour as well as they could ; add therefore kdew as well 
whed to leave off work: he would dridk with theb, pay his share 
whed he had buddy, and play at cards while id a state of sobdab- 
bulisb: iddeed, doe ordidary obsei-ver could tell by his acts that he was 
dot thed perfectly awake. The way id which this rebarkable case was 
bade public, was this : He was id the habit of washidg hibself add 
chadgidg his dress whed he left off work — ^this he'd do, whether he hap- 
peded to be awake or asleep— add wud evedidg, havidg chadged his 
clothes as usual, add tied his workidg dress id a haddkerchief, he was 
accosted od his way hobc by a wobad, whob, after sobe littie codversa- 
tiod, he perbitted to carry his buddle, of whidi she doe sooder got pos- 
sessiod, thad she rad up Hattod Garded, wedt dowd Safirod Hill, got idto 
a house, add escaped. Well, the codsequedt cxcitcbedt awoke hib ; add, 
as he clearly recollected all that had occurred, he related the whole of 
the circubstadces to ad officer, who fadcied, frob the descriptiod, that he 
kdew the wobad well. She was therefore apprehedded, add although 
placed >vith a dubber of other wobed, the bad id ad idstadt recogdised 
her persod add voice ; add, od searchidg her lodgidgs, the clothes were 
foudd! Dow this is a bost extraordidary case. You see this bad could 
recollect perfectly whed awake all that occurred while he slept. (Jede- 
ralJy solKlabbulists do dot whed awake recollect what occurs duridg 
sleep; but, od the codtrary, that which they either hear or see while 
awake, bakes ad ibpressiod iipod which duridg sleep they will act." 

" That, if I am a somnambulist, is precisely the case with me," ob- 
sei-ved Sylvester, who, while smoking his cigar calmly, had listened 
with great attention. " 1 can recollect nothing when awake, which 
occiu-s during sleep. If I could, the mystery would soon be solved. I 
should like to have one game of chess," he added, " 1 have not had a 
game for a very long time. Will you have a game with meV" 

" Do, dot dow," replied Tom ; " I wadt you to go to bed agaid. It's 
of doe use by sittidg up, if you sit up with be : that's quite clear." 

" Well, then, do you go to bed. 1 don't like the idea of your sitting 
up alone." 

"I shall dot go to bed dow: that's settled. Cobe, old boy, cobe; 
fidish your glass add be off." 

" Well," said Sylvester; " I will do so. What's o'clock?" 

" Dearly half-past two." 

" Half-past two. Then five hours more will settle it." 

" I wish it bay, with all by heart." 

" J'U diink that as a toast," said Sylvester; " 1 wish it may, with all 



THE SOUNAMBULIBT. 297 

my heart!" And, having finished his glass, he left the room, and calmly 
went to bed again. 

From this time, Tom heaixl nothing of him till eight o'clock, when he 
awoke, and cried, " Are you there still, Tom?" 

" Yes," replied Tom, going into his room. " What sort of a dight 
have you had?" 

" I slept excellently well. You heard nothing of me?" 

" Dothidg. You appeared to sleep souddly edough." 

" I'm sorry for it. It's very strange. In one sense Tm sorry for it." 

" Well," said Tom; " do you bead to get up, or lie a little lodger?" 

" Oh, I'll get up now. Eight hours' sound sleep is enough for any man." 

" Well, do so, thed ; but you haved't had quite eight hours." 

" It's eight o'clock now, and I went to bed at twelve.'* 

" Yes, but you were with be dearly half ad hour." 

"With you! when?" 

" Why, frob two till half-past. You, of course, recollect?" 

" What, this morning, do you mean?" 

" This bordidg." 

" Impossible." 

" Dod't you rebebber it?" 

" No! I'm unconscious of having even turned since I came to bed at 
twelve o'clock last night." 

" Iddeed. You dod't recollect cobidg idto the other roob, add havidg 
a cigar, a glass of braddy-add- water, add wishidg to have a gabe of chess?" 

" Are you serious?" 

" Perfectly." 

" Then I recollect nothing whatever about it." 

'^ Stop a bidite. Sobethidg bay be bade of this, dow. I related ad 
extraordidary case of sobdabbulisb— a case which I'd just beed readidg; 
that of a bricklayer's labourer--do you recollect that?" 

" No. I recollect nothing that may have occurred since I came to 
bed last night at twelve." 

"Thed, by boy, it is perfectly clear that your suspiciod is well 
foudded : that you are a sobdabbulist iddeed. You wedt idto that roob 
about two o'clock, add idquired if I'd seed or heard adythidg of you, add 
whed I told you that I had dot, you sat dowd add wished to have sobe 
braddy-add-water, add a cigar. I advised you to put od your clothes, 
add you did so, add sboked a cigar, add dradk braddy-add-water, add 
listeded to the case of sobdabbulisb to which I've just alluded, add thed 
wished to have a gabe of chess, but, as I refused to play, add urged 
you to go to bed agaid, you did so, after havidg fidished your glass, add 
I heard doe bore of you." 

" But is it possible for me to have done all this, while you were un- 
conscious of my being asleep?" 

" You appeared to be awake— perfectly awake. The idea of your 
beidg asleep at the tibe dever occurred to be. Stop a bidite." 

" Might you not have dreamt all this?" 

" I dod't thidk that I closed by eyes, eved for a bobedt." 

.'< But is it not. possible?" 



3M nvi 

<' Why, it is pomble. Add it oertndl^ does mpp^atrio be albott ib- 

possiblc that, while jou were doidg all this, I should dot hmye disoovend 
that you were asleep." 

*< Might not the piupose for which you sat up, have induced you to 
dream on the subject?^ 

<< If I slept, it bight; but I dod*t believe I wedt to sleep mt alL Add 
yet I cadt, od the other hadd, thidk that you oould thus hmve deoeired 
be. However, WU talk the batter over agaid by-add-bye. Get up, 
add let's have a good breakfast. Hi go add have a waih; youll dot be 

lodgr 

" 111 be down in ten minutes." 

Turn then left the room, and Sylvester rose and dressed himself, 
thoughtlully, and went down to break&st, but although they went over 
the matter again, conviction was not the result 

Sylvester, notwithstanding, felt justified in naming the subject to his 
solicitor, who was pleased with the idea of being able to plead somnam- 
bulism, but then he wanted absolute proof. Tom's evidence, under 
the circumstances, he feared, would be insufficient: still he resolved 
to see liim on the subject, and accordingly called in the ooone of die 
day. 

'< Mr. Delohne," said he, '* Mr. Sound has just informed me of that 
affair which occurred last night, or, rather, this morning, while you 
were sitting up. He imagines, as you ate awaie, thatheis a somnambu- 
list, and if we can absolutely protM him to be one, we can put in an ex- 
cellent plea to this action, which can now be defended <mly by a plain 
blunt negative. Now, can you conscientiously declare that he ts a som- 
nambuliflt?" 

'' Doe,'* replied Tom; ** I have by doubts still. If he be dot a sob- 
dabbulist, it is, iddeed, stradge: if he be, add cabe idto the roob id 
which I was sittidg, dradk, sboked, add codversed — as I ibagided he 
did — ^without idspiridg be with a sidgle thought of his beidg asleep, it 
is equally stradge ; but whether, id reality, he is a sobdabbulist or dot, 
I cadtf at presedt, uddertake to say. I will, however, discover the fact, 
if, iddeed, the discovery be possible; add I have, with that view, laid 
by plads for to dight, of which plads I bead to keep hib id igdoradce. 
If, as I suspect, he be wud who, id his sleep, recollects all that passes 
while he is awake, he is certaid to frustrate every schebe that bay 
happed to be codceived with his kdowledge. He shall, therefore, kdow 
dothidg whatever about it. Ill retire to by owd roob, as usual, to dight, 
add I hope that, id the bordidg, I shall have the proof required." 

'^ I hope so too, for, at present, all we can do is to put in a fiat 
denial, and I fear that, as Sir Charles is no ordinary man, and as we 
can find nothing whatever against the character of his butler — ^whose 
career we have traced from his infancy, upwards— a mere denial of the 
facts sworn to will have no effect. If we could but get this proof of 
Sound^s somnambulism, wc should be able, with confidence, to go into 
court; but the proof must be absolute to do any good: suspicion alone 
will be of no use at all." 
<< I perceive," observed Tom, <' the ibportadce of the proofs add if it 






I 




/ ^ 

/ / 



-CC 



THB SOMNAMBUIiIftT. 299 

be possible, I'll have it. You'll dot see Sylvester agaid to-daj, I sup- 
pose?" 

" I don't expect to see him again. He is gone, I believe, to call upon 
Scholefield." 

'^ Well, if you should see hib, dod't expkdd to hib adythidg which 
has passed betweed us." 

" Certainly not I see your object too clearly. Will you call upon 
me in the morning, or shsdl I call upon you?" 

" Oh, ril call upod you about ted." 

The solicitor promised to be at home at that hour, and, being satis^ 
fied that everything possible would be done, took his leave. 

In the evening, Tom attached strings to the window and door of the 
room in which Sylvester was to sleep, and, having left lengths conveni- 
ently available, sat down with Sylvester to have a game of chess. The 
game lasted till eleven, and they then had a glass of grog each, and a 
cigar, and, as Sylvester did not imagine for one moment that Tom 
meant to sit up again that night, they retired to their respective rooms 
about twelve. 

Tcaaa. then got hold of the strings-^one through the window, and the 
other through the door, and, as he held them in his hand, it was per- 
fectly impossible for Sylvester to open either the do<H: or the window of 
hi$ room without Tom's knowledge. And there he sat, with the strings 
in his hand, a cigar in his mouUi, and a glass of grog before him : and 
there he contiaued to sit until two, when the string attached to the door 
was drawn out of his hand slowly. 

Tom was up in an instant, but paused; and then proceeded with the 
utmost cantion. Hie distinctly heard footsteps ascending the staus; 
and he fi>Uowed liie sound noiselessly. That they were the footsteps of 
Sylvester he had not the slightest doubt: he Mt sure of it, and panted 
with impatience; but as the value of discretion in such cases was not 
unknown to him, he followed them cautiously still. A door opened — 
slowly; the door of |he attic— and closed again as Tom ascended; and 
when he had reached it, he stood and listened; but heard no soimd 
within. For what imagined purpose was Sylvester there? That room 
was perfectly empty. It surely was Sylvester. Tom began to doubt it. 
He opened die door, and found the rocMn empty still. He looked round 
and marvelled. " Who's there?" he demanded. No answer was re- 
turned. He could hear no sound. He ceased to breathe, and might 
have heard the breathing of another; but there was no one breathing 
there. The window was open; but that was usual: still, being open, 
to the window he went, and, on looking out, to his horror beheld Syl- 
vester pacing the parapet! 

His blood in an instant chilled. He was breathless with terror. 
With uplifted hands he looked at him, appalled 1 He expected that 
every moment would be his last. And yet what could he do? What 
could be done? 

Sylvester slowly approached, and— passed him: and Tom would have 
clutched him as he passed, but he then felt utterly powerless. 

Again he came, and, as he approached, Tom nerved himself to grasp 



300 STLVESVER 80t7im 

him, anfl, ju»t as ho was about to pass, he seized hk arm, when 8yl- 
vc>tcry with a couvulsivi' .>tarr, slip[K'd instantly over the parapet. 

Tom, however, still held him — tinulv; and cried aloud, "Sylvester! 
— Sylvester! — (ifxl! give nic strength; — ^"tis 1! — Sylvester! — ^1! Now! 
—make one efibrt! — for God*8 sake be firm! Seize the coping — the 
copin;^!" 

Sylve:>ter did so, but the stone gave way, and fell with a crash be- 
neath him. 

"Again! — again!" cried Tom; " again !*-now then!^-4*ear not! — 
drtn*t be alanncd! — raise yourself up! — there! — ^now then! — now then! 
— there! — ^therel— Well done — ^well done— well done — ^wdl done!" 

The moment he had succeeded in dragging Sylvester into the room, 
he exclaimed, " My boy! Thank God!" and fiimted. 

For some time Sylvester stood over him aghast. The shock ap- 
prared to Iiave deprived him of all his faculties. He had some slight 
notion — some glimmering of an idea— of his having been in peril, but 
that idea was so fitful and confused, that nothing ever existed betwevi it 
and vacancy. 

Ail that he understood was that Tom was at his feet: evexy thoqg^t 
oi' assistance being necessary was absent There he stood, and there 
lie continued to stand, until James, who had heard his master fidlyoane 
trembling up with a light. Nor did he move even then. Neither dn 
presence of James, nor the light, made the slightest impressioii MfOfi 
him. 

'< Sir l** exclaimed James, who was half dead with fear; ''ffirtlfr. 
Sound! sir! what is the matter?^' 

Sylvester still stood motionless; and James approached his ntitar 
and knelt by his side, and, as he conceived that he had ceased to eodsti 
he seized Sylvester's hand and cned, '^ Tell me— tell me— ^ my master 
dead?'' 

Sylvester started, and looked wildly round, and consciousness slightly 
returned; when he knelt by the side of his faithful friend, and took hu 
hand and pressed it. 

^^Is he dead, sir?"' reiterated James. ''Is he, sir? Tell me— tell 
mrV 

" God forbid!'* replied Sylvester, faintly. " No, he is not dead." 

fJaiucs in an instant rushed from the room, and soon re-appeared with 
Monie water, and anxiously bathed his master's temples, while Sylvester 
knelt by Ins side. 

" Sonic vinegar," said Sylvester; " or salts, if you have them." 

James again flew from the room, and having found some vinegar 
hastily returned, and very soon had the satisfaction of seeing his master 
begin to revive. 

" Sylvester," exclaimed Tom, on opening his eyes, " you are safe. I 
"Nvas wrong — ^very wrong; but you are safe." 

Sylvester did not exactly understand this. He could not conceive 
liow Tom could have been wrong, lie did not, however, seek an expla- 
nation then ; but did all in his power to restore him. 

Consciousness having returned, Tom soon felt able to walk down 




V 



/' 



' >//r//. / Ar,j/^/v/. . 



THE SOMNAMBULIST. 301 

stairs, which he did with the assistance of James, who conducted him 
into his chamber. 

" Oh!" he exclaimed, as he sank into a chair, " Sylvester, what an 
escape you have had!" 

" I am anxious," said Sylvester, " of course, to know how, but wait 
till you are more composed." 

" Jib," said Tom, " give me sobe braddy." 

James looked at the bottle which stood by his side, and inquired if 
that contained brandy. 

"Yes," replied Tom, "that's braddy, Jib." 

James thought this strange — ^remarkably strange. He had never 
seen brandy in that room before. There were, moreover, sundry pieces 
of cigars lying about. He couldn't understand it at all ! In fine, the 
whole of the circumstances of which he had become cognisant, since the 
noise above interfered with his repose, appeared to him to be a parcel 
of complicated mysteries. He did, not^vithstanding, pour out a glass of 
brandy, and having handed it to his master, poured out another, and 
having handed that to Sylvester, put the bottle down. 

" Pour out a glass for yourself," said Tom. And James did so, and 
drank it, and relished it much. "Add dow," added Tom, "go idto Mr. 
Soudd's roob, add bridg dowd his clothes." 

Certainly, James thought it extremely correct that Sylvester should 
have his clothes, seeing that he had then nothing on but his shirt, while the 
night was not a hot one, nor anjrthing like it. He therefore went up for 
the clothes in question, and having succeeded in bringing them down, 
Sylvester slipped them on. 

" Dow," said Tom, " take adother glass, Jib, add thed be off to bed." 

James liked the former part of this order much ; but he didn't at all 
like the latter. He felt himself entitled to something bearing the sem- 
blance of an explanation! conscious of being — as far as all these most 
extraordinary circumstances were concerned — ^in the dark. He there- 
fore stood and sipped, and sipped — ^in a manner, for him, unusual — 
until he found that no sort of an explanation would be vouchsafed, when 
— ^feeling that that kind of treatment was not exactly handsome — ^he 
indignantly finished his glass and withdrew. 

"Syl, by dear boy," said Tom, "give be your hadd! You're alive, 
by boy; but your life was dot worth a bobedt's purchase. I was a 
fool, I kdow— a codsubbate fool — ^but I acted od the ibpulse of the 
bobedt." 

*' But how," inquired Sylvester; "how were you a fool? You said 
just now that you were wrong— very wrong ! How were you wrong? 
In what respect?" 

"Til explaid. But first let us have just a little bore braddy. If ady 
bad had told be that I should ever have acted id a case like this with 
such bodstrous iddiscretiod, I should have felt disposed to kick hib. I 
otight to have kdowd better. The host igdoradt bad alive would scarcely 
have beed guilty of so badifest ad act of folly." 

" Well, but in what did this folly consist?" 

" ril tell you. Tou tm tbese stridgs/' 



aoi hl^ 

^* Wild of thcb cobbudicates with the sash of your bed-xoob widdow, 
add the other with the haddle of the door. Beaolvedod asoertaididg, if 
possible, whether yoii were a sobdabbulist or dot, I, idstead of goidg to 
b#d, kept these stndgs id by hadd, oat of which wad of theb, about two 
o*clock , was slowly drawd. I kdew id ad idstadt thed that joa had opeded 
your door, add as I heard yoa goidg up stairs, I followed. Toa wedt 
idto the attic. I followed yoa there, add od lodkidg roudd I oould tee 
dothidg of you. But I wedt to the widdow, add there I ww yon 
walkidg upod the very verge of the parapet !** 

'' Good God!'' exchumed Sylvester; << is it possibler 

^^ There you were, add if I'd dot beed a feol, all would have beed well 
doubtless: you would have oobe id agaid, Fve do doabt, id perfect 
safety. But to be, your positiod appeared to be so periknia, that actidg, 
as I said before, od the ibpulse of the bobedt, I seized your arb, add Td 
doe sooder dode so thad you fell over the parapet, add there I held you. 
How I got you up agaid / cad't ezplaid. It is suffioiedt for be that I 
did get you up, add that here you are dow alive before be.*' 

*^ My escape, then, must have been miraculous?" 

<* It was. I wouldd't see you id the sabe poaitiod agaid if ady bad 
were to lay be dowd a billiod of buddy. I shudder whed I thidk of it. 
Let us for a little while talk about sobethidg else. Wad thidg, however, 
is certaid: you are a sobdabbulist, 8yl, add a veryidveterate aobdabbu- 
list too. I see dow, who it was that got be idto idl thoae scrapes five or 
six years ago. YouVe ad old hadd at itw There was panq)et boainess 
goidg od thed! Dod't you rebebber?" 

" I do," replied Sylvester, " and innumerable other things which have 
appeared to me to be mysteries, are now solved." 

" Dod't you recollect by study? Dod't 3rou rebebber what a gabe 
you used to have id it dight ailer dight? I see it all dow, add I shall 
tell the goverdor of it id triubph, for I feel codvidced that, to this day, 
he believes that the whole of by eardest declaratiods of iddocedce were 
false. You it was that caused the destructiod of that wobad I used to 
prize so highly : it was also you that sbashed by glass just before you 
left towd. This explaids all! Jib's character is viddicated, add you are 
codvicted. I shall bridg ad actiod agaidst you, old fellow, lor dabages." 

"Do so," said Sylvester, smiling, "and I'll plead 'somnambulism' to 
it. However," he added, seriously, " the proof is now clear. That Sir 
Charles and his servant saw mc I can now have no doubt. What effect 
the proof will have in the forthcoming trial of course remains to be 
seen." 

" The effect will be to give you a verdict," said Tom. " There cad 
be doe doubt about that." 

" I don't know. I fear that they will require it to be proved that I 
was in a state of somnambulism then. But, independently of this affair, 
isn't the fact of my being a sonmambulist awful to contemplate? I can 
never be safe!" 

" Dod't let's have ady bore horrible reflectiods. We have had suffi- 
oiedt horror for wud dight, at least. FD take care of yoo, by boy, for 



THB SOmUMBUIIST. 

the tibe beidg. You shall be safe. Ton shall sleep with be. TU fix 
you. You shall dot, however, kdow exactly how." 

" I had better be chained to the bed every night.'* 

*' I'll get a pair of haddcuffs id the bordidg, add while you are here, 
put wud od your wrist add the other od by owd. Fll dot allow you to 
go prowlidg about at dight id this stupid state of bide. But we'll say 
doe bore about it dow. Let's go to bed. You lie od that side, add 
m lie od this. K you get away frob be, let be kdow, add I'll believe it." 

They then went to bed: and when Tom was quite sure that Sylvester 
was asleep, he tied the tails of their shirts together, and quietly went to 
sleep hinuself. 



CHAPTER XXXIV. 



THE LAST REQUEST. 



Thebe are men whom nothing can apparently astonish — ^who take 
everything so coolly — ^hear everything so calmly — sec everything won- 
derful with such seeming apathy — ^that the most perfect insensibility 
appears to form one of their chief characteristics. On the heads of these 
men no phrenologist can find either the organ of marvellousness or that 
of venejration — activity being essential to the development of both. No- 
thing appears to be new to them; nothing seems to strike them as being 
extraordinary ; nothing on earth can induce them to manifest wonder. 
It is true that this stoicism may be very admirable— doubtless, were it 
not merely apparent it would be an invaluable blessing ! — ^but the ques- 
tion is, do not these ^' stoics" feci and refiect more deeply than those men 
whose feelings and thoughts are on the surface ready for immediate 
expression? 

This, however, is a question which need not be learnedly answered 
here. We can get on with this history very well without it. The object 
is simply to show that Mr. Wilks — Sylvester's solicitor — ^was one of 
these men, and that when Tom — ^^vho kept his appointment pimctually 
at ten — had explained to him the substance of all that had occurred, he 
didn't appear to be in the slightest degree astonished. He viewed it all 
as a matter of business. He thought it would strengthen the defence. 
The perilous position, the miraculous escape, and tlie feelings of horror 
which Tom had inspired were all set aside. He wanted Tom's evidence : 
that was the point. He looked at the facts : they were the things. And 
would Tom swear to them? — that was the question. 

" Of course," said he, " you have no objection to appear as a wit- 
ness?" 

*' Dode whatever," replied Tom. ^^ I cad have doe objectiod." 

«< Well, then, we'll take the facts down." 



804 STLTBSTIB 80UIID 

<<Dod*t you thidk that the evidedoe of by bad Jib will be of sobe 
service?" 

''Can he proye anjrthing?** 

'' Why Soudd, just before he left Loddod, broke by pier-gUuW| id a 
state of sobdabbulisb?" 

" Did your servant see him do it?" 

'' He saw hib go idto the roob at dight, add I foudd it abashed id the 
bordidg." 

" He saw him go into the room, you say?** 

"Yes: with dothidg od but his shirt. He moreover saw id his hadd 
a pistol, of which he subsequcdtly heard the report, add I foudd the ball 
id the wall this bordidg, just where the pier-glass stood." 

" That'll do," said Wilks. " That'll do. There's nothing like a little 
collateral evidence. When can I see your servant?" 

" Oh, ril sedd hib to you id the course of the bordidg." 

"Thank you. Very good. Now, then, I'll take down your evi- 
dence." 

The facts were then reduced to writing, and appeared to be alone a 
sufficient defence; and when Tom had again promised to send James on 
his return, he left the office, fully convinced that Sylvester must have a 
verdict. 

While Tom was thus engaged with the solicitor, Sylvester wrote to 
his aunt, requesting her to come to town immediatedly; and informing 
her of the &ct of his being a somnambulist. 

This may appear to have been indiscreet, and indeed to a certain ex- 
tent it was so, for when the information reached Cotherstone G-range, 
Aunt Eleanor nearly fainted. 

Sylvester's object was simply to prepare her for the reception of that 
intelligence which he had to communicate, and at which he conceived 
she might otherwise be shocked ; but no sooner did the bare fact of his 
being a somnambulist reach her, than her anxious thoughts reverted 
to her brother, and she felt wretched. 

Her reverend ^end was with her when the letter arrived, and on 
perceiving her emotion, his anxiety was intense. 

" Dear Eleanor!" he exclaimed, " what is it? What — ^what can have 
occurred?" 

Aunt Eleanor gave him the letter to read, and he read it — ^liastily, 
being apprehensive of meeting with something dreadful; but finding 
nothing to realise his lively apprehensions, he read it again with more 
care. 

"A somnambulist:" said he, at length, thoughtfully; "a somnam- 
bulist. A somnambulist is a person who walks in his sleep : a sleep 
walker: one who walks while asleep, and imagines he's awake. I have 
read many strange accounts of these somnambulists. But what, my 
dear Eleanor, induced your distress?" 

" The fact of his being a somnambulist," she replied. " My poor 
brother was one. It was that which brought him to a premature grave." 

"Well, that was very lamentable — very. But Sylvester is young! 
He is in fact quite a youth! and I hold it to be extremely fortunate that the 



THE SOMNAMBULIST. 305 

thing has been found out so soon! He must be cured of this propensity. 
I have not the smallest doubt that a cure may be effected. I am not, 
it is true, conversant with that which is termed the physiology of som- 
nambulism; but, doubtless, when we look at the wonderfiil progress 
which the science of medicine has made within the last century, means 
of effecting a cure have been found." 

"But what p^i*ils-^what dreadful dangers — are* encountered by those 
who are thus afflicted!" ' 

" True; and these it will now be our care to prevent. I submit that, 
instead of uselessly lamenting the fact, we ought to congratulate our- 
selves on the discovery. Understand, my dear Eleanor, I do not mean 
to say that the fact itself is one which ought not to be lamented : my 
object is merely to convey to you my impression that we ought to be 
thankful that the discovery has been made before anything of a very 
serious character occurred. 

" I understand ; and I mn thankful— oh ! most thankful." 

" And now, if I do not mistake — I know it is presumptuous to form 
an opinion without having the necessary data — still, if I do not mistake, 
I can see distinctly the cause of his being accused of that offence of 
which we both firmly believe him to be innocent. * Sir Charles was 
quite right — I cannot conceive the possibility of a person in his station 
declaring that to be true which he knew to be false — he was doubtless 
quite right: he did see Sylvester leaving the house as described, and 
Sylvester, I will venture to say, was in a state of somnambulism then." 

" Very likely!" exclaimed Aunt Eleanor, suddenly. " That's it! Yes! 
It must be so." 

" I think it abundantly clear that it 25 so. I moreover think that there 
can be no doubt that the judge and jury will see it. Really, my impres- 
sion is, that just at this time nothing could have been more fortunate 
than this discovery. A man in a state of somnambuUsm cannot be said 
to be a responsible agent, and if he be not a responsible agent, he cannot 
with justice, be punished. I here assume, my dear Eleanor, the case of 
a man who, while in a state of somnambulism, commits an offence 
which is ordinarily punishable by law — such an offence, for example, 
as a sacrilege. We could not, with justice, pimish any individual for 
committing such an offence while in a state of somnambulism. Hence 
it is that I feel quite certain that, when the fact of Sylvester being seen 
to leave the residence of this gentleman is viewed in connexion with 
the circumstance of his being a somnambulist, the jiuy wiU, without 
hesitation, return a verdict in his favour. But have you never seen, my 
dear Eleanor, anything indicative of the existence of this extraordinary 
—what shall I call it — during his residence here?" 

" Why really — although I never noticed the slightest indication of 
anything of the kind — I am now disposed to view him as the author of 
all those little mysteries by which we have been so perplexed. About 
five years ago, you recollect we were terribly pestered." 

" I see!" exclaimed the reverend gentleman. " He was down here at 
that time. I see it all now. It tvcts he whom I then caught at my 
peaches! Jones is right — quite right — ^he's perfectly right. I must 

y 



806 STLYXflTXB souiro. 

apologise to Jones at a fitting opportunity, for, albeit he deekrea to lius 
day that it was Sylvester, I have persisted in repudiating the idea as 
being monstrous. And then the ghost — ^why, let me ooo t he ghost ! 
Why the ghost never appears here when Sylvester is absent. He is the 
ghost: he must be the ghost. The thing is all explained. When he is 
in town no ghost appears: it is always seen when he is here! Nothing 
can be clearer. Bless my life and soul, now I wonder this never occurred 
to mc before. He is the ghost. There cannot be a doubt abont it. And 
this reminds me that I have been unwittingly guilty of an act of injus- 
tice. You remember that that man, Obaddah Drant, declared the (^er 
day that Sylvester was drinking one night at the Crumpet and Crown? 
Sylvester denied it positively — solemnly, and I, in consequence, told 
Drant plainly, and in no measured terms, that it was false. I now, how- 
ever, firmly believe it to be true : I believe that Sylvester, while in a 
state of somnambulism, teas there. I must apolc^se to that iinhappy 
man : it is but just that I should do so. Why, my dear Eleanor, this is 
the key to all. This affords a ready and a rational explanation of 
everything that has occurred!" 

" But is it not strange that we should never have discovered it?** 

"It is — ^very strange. That, however, which strikes me as being 
most strange, is the fact of his having deceived me that night when he 
entered the parlour. I really believed him to be a spirit: I did indeed. 
That, my dear Eleanor, is the strangest thing of all. But we must see 
him : we must see him without delay. When shall we ^o, my dear— 
when shall we go? Shall we start off at once?" 

" Why, I don't see how we can go to-day. I have nothing prepared!** 

" There is a coach, my dear, at twelve. Can you not, by the exer- 
cise of your ingenuity, manage to get ready by that time? I would not 
press the point, but I really feel so anxious to see him." 

" So do I! But — well, I will get ready: we will go to-day. The 
coach starts from the inn at twelve?" 

" Yes, and if we start from here at the same time, we shall meet it." 

" Then let it be so. You wiQ have to go home : by the time you re- 
turn, I'll be ready." 

The reverend gentleman then left the cottage — prepared for the 
journey — ^returned at eleven — sat down to lunch — ^ate heartily — and at 
twelve o'clock they started. 

As they left the village the carriages of Mr. Howard and the lady 
whose assumed name was Greville met at the door of the inn. It will 
doubtless be remembered that they, with Henriette, were introduced in 
the fifth chapter of this history. It will be also recollected that they 
had been in the habit of meeting at that place periodically; that Mr. 
Howard would never see Mrs. Greville ; and that Henriette — ^who was 
allowed to remain in the room one hour — ^had been kept in perfect ig- 
norance as to who she really was. 

Henriette had a thousand times entreated her father to explain this 
mystery : a thousand times had she begged of him to tell her why they 
met there, and why Mrs. Greville — whom he felt she loved dearly— 
should be always so deeply affected when they met, His answer inva* 



I 







• .-•-'^'^.y ^.^ .■■ . ^^'".;" ^v^ />'' - '.V/v-f' 



THB SOMNAMBULIST. 307 

riably was " She knewyoii in infancy — jovl remind her of her own dear 
child. I would not wound her feelings by neglecting to take you there 
on these occasions for the world. I promised long ago that she should 
see you twice a-year.*' 

Nor could Heniiette obtain an explanation from Mrs. Greville. 

" Why," she inqidred, on one occasion, " why does not my dear father 
see you?" 

" He will not see me/* replied Mrs. Greville. " I remind him of your 
miunma.*' 

" Yofu knew her, then?" 

"Oh, yes: weU." 

" You have been married?" 

"I have." 

** You have had children?" 

" One — one dear — dear girl." 

" Your husband — is he dead?'' 

"Alas— tome." 

" Your daughter, too?" 

"To me — ^to me: yes, both are dead to me! But do not urge me: 
pray do not. You'll break my heart. I cannot bear it. Promise me 
—do promise me— that you'll never revert to this subject again." 

Henriette, seeing her distress, did promise, and from that hour the 
subject, in her presence, was never named. 

On this occasion, however, as the oarriages met, Howard and Mr?. 
Greville caught each other's glance, and whUe his altered appearance so 
shocked her, that she was almost unable to alight, he suddenly sank 
back in his carriage and wept. 

Having been with some difficulty assisted into the room which she 
usually occupied, she sank into a chair and sobbed aloud, and when 
Henriette — ^who had marvelled at her father's sudden emotion — had 
joined her, she fell upon her neck, and kissed and blessed her more pas- 
sionately than ever. 

" My dear Mrs. Greville," said Henriette, " what can be the meaning 
of this? I left my father weeping, and now — ^" 

" You left him weeping? Oh, did he weep when he saw me?" 

" I know not that he saw you, but he wept." 

" Thank heaven! I am not then despised." 

" Despised! Surely you never imagined that you were?" 

" I have thought so, my dearest love — ^I have thought so! But he is 
not well! He cannot be well!" 

" He is as well as usual ! or was when we left home this morning." 

" Then what a change has been effected ! Oh, my love, there ivas a 
time— but that time's past. Dear Henriette! — ^you know not how I love 

you!" 

" You love me. You love me, and yet you keep me in ignorance of 
that which I have been for years panting to know. Why are you now 
thus afflicted? Why did my dear father weep? If you love me, let me 
know all. I said if! — ^Forgive me. I feel, I know you love me fondly; 
bltl pray, pray keep me in ignorance no longer/' 



306 STLVEBTEB SOUND 

" My dear, dear girl," said Mrs. Greville, who continued to weep bit- 
tlerlj, " indeed you miist not urge me. My lips on this subject are 
sealed. That seal must not by me be broken." 

A pause ensued : during which Mrs. Greville sat gazing at Henrietta 
hrough her tears, which she would have concealed but could not. 

^' Henriette/' she said at length, having struggled with her feeHngs 
until she appeared to have almost subdued them. *' Henriette, will you 
do me a favour?" 

" My dear Mrs. Greville," replied Henriette, " why ask me? You 
know not what pleasiu'e it will give me to do anything for you, of which 
I am capable." 

" I believe your dear father is still in the carriage." 

" He is." 

" Will you go to him, my dear girl, and tell him that I am anxious — 
most anxious — to see him for a few short moments?" 

" It will give me great happiness to do so." 

" Dear Henriette, tell him — ^pray tell him — ^that if he wiM but grant 
me this one request, I pledge my honour — ^aye, my honour — ^that it 
shall be my last.'' 

Henriette kissed her, and flew from the room, and when the door of 
the carriage had been opened, she said, " Dear father, mamma — ^I feel, I 
know that it is mamma — ^*' 

" Henriette!" said Howard sternly, as he alighted. 

He said no more, but handed her into the carriage, followed her, gave 
the word " Home !" and they were off. 



CHAPTER XXXV. 



THE TRIAL. 



From the evening Aunt Eleanor and her friend arrived in town till 
the day of the trial, nothing occurred to Sylvester worth recording. He 
invariably slept with Tom, who had procured a pair of manacles — with 
a thin chain attached — with which he every night secured him to him- 
self, and although he very frequently rose in his sleep, the chain instantly 
checked and awoke them both. 

" Dot a bit of it, old fellow," Tom used to exclaim. " You dod't do 
adythidg at all of the sort. You wadt to go prowlidg about as usual, do 
you? Cobe alodg id agaid: cobe— -cobe alodg." 

When Aunt Eleanor heard of this arrangement, she felt perfectly 
satisfied of Sylvester's safety ; and so did the reverend gentleman, whose 
whole time was occupied in the conception of ideas, calculated in his 
view to strengthen the defence. He was to be a witness — ^a most im- 
portant witness— and when Mr. Wilks, the solicitor, had taken down his 



THE SOBIKAMBULIST. 309 

evidence, he called, with the view of improving it, two or three times 
every day upon Mr. Wilks, until he found — and it really appeared to 
him to be the strangest thing in nature — that Mi\ Wilks was never at 
home when he called! He was continually out. Nothing could be like 
it. Go when he might, Mr. Wilks was from home. He woidd occa- 
sionally wait an hour or two in the outer office— either reading the paper 
or conversing with one of the clerks — ^for there tvas one very nice young 
man in that office ; all the rest, in the reverend gentleman's judgment, 
behaved with too much levity, for they were always laughing; they 
laughed whenever he entered, and continued to laugh all the time h^ 
remained — ^but it mattered not how many hours he waited, Mr. Wilks 
never returned while he was there. 

This extraordinary fact engendered in his mind a strong suspicion that 
Mr. Wilks neglected his business! and he began to lament that some 
other solicitor had not been engaged in the case ; but as the doctor and 
Mr. Scholefield — who at once perceived the cause of Mr. Wilks's extra- 
ordinary absence on those occasions — set his mind at rest on that point, 
he regidarly conveyed his ideas tmce a day to Mr. Wilks on a sheet of 
foolscap paper, which he invariably filled, and which Mr. Wilks inva- 
riably put under the table. 

The morning of the day at length arrived : the day on which the trial 
was appointed to take place : and the reverend gentleman rose at four, 
and took a constitutional walk roimd Hyde Park. As he felt very fid- 
getty he walked very fast, but Time seemed to fly much more slowly 
than usual. He had to be at Tom's at eight o'clock, but before six he 
felt quite knocked up. Two hours remained. How was he to pass those 
two hours? A thought struck him! He woidd go down to Westminster 
Hall. He would look at the building, and ascertain whether he thought 
it likely that justice would be administered that day. He accordingly 
wended his way towards the Hall, and as he met sundry females, whom 
he imagined impure, he walked in the middle of the road, conceiving that 
expostulation would be useless. 

On reaching Palace Yard, he stood, and looked, and contemplated 
deeply, and wildly conjectured, and then went over the whole of his evi- 
dence, which, of course, he thought perfectly conclusive. 

" Cab, your honoiu'!" said a man, who approached him. 

" No, my good man," replied the reverend gentleman : " I was merely 
looking at Westminster Hall. There is a trial coming on to-day in 
which I am interested." 

" Indeed!" cried the cabman; " what trial is it?" 

"It is a crim, con. trial, * Julian versus Soimd,' but my friend— who 
is the defendant in the action — is a somnambulist." 

" Beg pardon, sir; a how much?" 

"A somnambulist! A person who walks in his sleep!" 

"Oh! one of them there svells — ^I see!" 

"He is innocent of the crime of which he is accused: quite inno- 
cent." 

" No doubt." 

" But then the plaintiff in this case will not believe it«" 



310 STLVESTBB BOUHD 

''That's alvays the case, sir; they never viB." 
*' It is lamentable that it should be so!** 
- W.rrv ! hut they alvays knows better than anybody ebe.** 
*' Tl:«v always appear to Wi«?«they know better." 
*' '1 hat's jist precisely my meaning.** 

*• But then you know it's obstinacy: nothing but obstinacy!** 
** Nothing';' Tve alvays found them svells the most obstropolusest 
gniTii:." 

" Ji'meu would in all cases listen to reason — " 

" 'J hat's till* pint. Reason's the ticket!" 

*• hut ynu sot' they will not. However, * 8UU8 cuique tnoaP ** 

*' Ilollol ii<)M what's the row?" inquired one of the cabma&*8 friends. 
" AVliy, Dick/* said Bob, ^Nanking very significantly: " this here gen- 
tleman hero is hinterested in a haction.** 

**l)ues his mother know he's out?" inquired Dick, with very great 

in<lisi;rction. 

'- My m'>ther," replied the reverend gentleman, "of whom you could 
have liml nu knowledge, has been dead twenty years !** 

Boll again winked at Dick, who withdrew. 

•• lii/s a wulgjir man, that, sir,'* observed Bob, "werry." 

** 1 inu.^t i^ay that I don't think him very refined.** 

'* IWt tlitn v«)t can you expect? He's had no eddication.** 

" T'licn he's much to be pitied.** 

" Wirry true. There you've jist hit my sentiments. Wcrry tnW| 
iri']<'< II A coM morning, sir," added Bob. " Heverythink's werrj 
Ju:l r li«)2>'? you'll allow me to drink your honour's heidth?" - 

*' f I'.ro*^ shilling,'* said the reverend gentleman, " which, as you're 
a ci/ii man. you may apply to that purpose." 

*' Bcv p.-avlon. sir: I hope you von't think me too intruding, but as I 
kncAVb you'iv a gentleman as feels for distress, I'd be werry much 
obli^u'lireJ t<> yuu if you'd i)e so kind as to lend me jist another eighteen- 
p^ iic«j. I ain't had a fare to-night, sir, reely. I shall be sure to see 
^ou airin, sir; and then I'll pay youi* honour!" 

'' "^.wJl, my good man. I don't know you at all; but if, as you say, 
yon are disti'essed, here is one-and-sixpence more: take it home to your 
wli'v and family.'' 

*' Tha.ik you, sir: I'm wcrry much obleeged to you,** said Bob, who 
v/inked at Dick in the distance, "werry." 

And having delivered himself to this effect, he at once rejoined his 
" ■v\ulqar" friend, who burst into a loud roar of laughter. 

The r«.verend gentleman didn't miderstand this: he conceived it to be 
imput'ihle to the man's vulgarity, and left Palace-yard, and wandered 
about until half-past seven, when, feeling exceedingly fatigued, he 
knf'ckcfl at Tom's door and was admitted. 

At eight o'clock precisely. Aunt Eleanor, the doctor, Mr. Scholefield, 
the, leverend gentleman, Sylvester, and Tom, sat down to breakfast, but 
thcr.j was not one of them who had the slightest appetite. Their anxiety 
caused them all to feel nervous. They couldn't eat. They drank tea 




^ Af ' y////////// r//^///^///// /^//'/ ///' . '//K //'//. J. 'Y/'//f-, 



THE fldCNAHBULnT. 811 

and coffee, it is true; but nothing substantial could any one of them 
touch. 

As nine o'clock was the time at which they were instructed to be 
at the court, they, at a quarter to nine, entered the carriages of the 
doctor and Mr. Scholefield, which were waiting at the door, and pro- 
ceeded at once to the Hall. 

This was the reverend gentleman's first appearance in a court of 
justice, and when he saw five or six rows of barristers as he entered, he 
really felt awed! He however said nothing; even their appearance 
seemed to have rendered him speechless; but when the Lord Chief 
Justice took his seat, he felt that it would be perfectly impossible for 
him to give any evidence at all. 

Weill that being then the first case on the list, "Julian versus 
Sound" was called. Mr. Charles Phillpotts appeared with Mr. Clark 
for the plaintiff, and Mr. Slashinger with Mr. OThail for the defendant. 

The legal preliminaries having been arranged, Mr. Clark opened the 
pleadings, from which he wished his lordship and the jury to understand, 
that in this case Sir Charles Julian, Bart., was the plaintiff; that Syl- 
vester Sound was the defendant; that the declaration charged the de- 
fendant with having assaulted Matilda Maria, the wife of 3ie plaintiff, 
&c., &c. ; and that the damages were laid at five thousand pounds. 

Mr. Phillpots then rose, and spoke as follows: " My lord and gentle- 
men of the jury. This is one of those cases which, to the honour of 
the mighty and moral empire in which we live— considering its import- 
ance, its popidation, and its wealth — are comparatively rare. I need 
not explain to you, gentlemen of the jury, that it is with the most pro- 
found anxiety that I approach this subject, for that anxiety will be 
appreciated when I state that I have confided in my hands the dearest 
interests of a fellow-creature, who has been wantonly— cruelly — ^vilely 
reduced from a state of supreme— of ecstatic happiness, to the deepest 
and most inconceivable misery. Oh, how I wish that I could place my 
imhappy — ^my heart-broken cUent before you, that his haggard brow, his 
sorrowing features, his wasted form, and his hollow eye, might manifest 
the horrible pangs he has endured I Oh, that I could bring him before 
you now, that you might see what havoc — ^what agonising havoc — ^his 
sufferings have caused! You would then behold a picture of appalling 
misery, which no words at my command can even feebly portray. I 
hope most fervently that you may never know how poor — how weak 
are the utmost exertions of an advocate, when placed under such afflict- 
ing circumstances as these! I hope that you may never experience the 
heart-rending pangs, the agonising sufferings of a man placed — ^basely 
placed — ^in the position of mv unhappy client. Grentlemen, the plaintiff 
is the scion of an honourable family — o, fkmily whose antiquity stands 
imsurpassed, and upon whose escutcheon calumny never dared to 
breathe. In the affectionate bosom of that family he passed the early 
portion of his life: but becoming enamoured of her whose honour the 
defendant has thus vilely tarnished, he married, and for years enjoyed 
the most supreme felicity on earth. She was amiable, beautiful, and 
highly accomplished. She possessed every virtue that could adorn her 



312 STLTXfiTXB SOUND 

bex. She was all his heart oould wish. His soul adored hex. In her his 
every earthly hope was centered. And thus years of bliss rolled on, till the 
defendant basely drew her into his accursed meshes, compassing the de- 
struction of an amiable woman— crushing the spirit of an honourable 
man — and blasting his happiness for ever. Gentlemen, up to this 
period the plaintiff had not the most distant idea of his wife's infidelity. 
He believed her to be faithful — ^he believed her to be virtuous — ^he be- 
lieved her to be pure — and I cherish a strong conviction that he was 
justified in believing her to be faithful, and virtuous, and pure; nor was 
it until he absolutely saw, to his astonishment and horror, the defendant 
leave the house at night, after having been seen in her chamber, that 
lie entertained the slightest suspicion of his having been for ever disho- 
uoui*ed and disgraced. Gentlemen, I shall bring before you evidence of 
the most incontrovertible character to prove that the defendant was 
actually seen to come from Lady Julian's chamber, while the lady her- 
self was in bed. I shall moreover prove to you, beyond all doubt, that 
the butler in the service of the plaintiff absolutely let the defendant out 
of the house! And what is the defendant? He is a medical man. He 
is a member of the Royal College of Surgeons. Now, if there be one 
man more than another in whose honour and integrity we feel ourselves 
justified in confiding, that men is a medical adviser. At all times, in 
all seasons, and under all conceivable circmnstances, a medical adviser 
has free and unfettered access to our homes. Relying upon his honotu", 
we place our wives and daughters freely under his care, and, al- 
though the defendant was not the medical adviser of Lady Julian — 
although it cannot be said that he violated any confidence directly 
reposed in him by the plaintiff — if once the case of a medical 
man, guilty of so infamous a practice as that of which the de- 
fendant has been guilty, be suffered to pass without being strongly 
mai'ked, farewell confidence, farewell security, farewell virtue, fare- 
well peace. Gentlemen, the fact of the defendant being a medical 
man greatly aggravates his infamy, for, up to this time, it has 
been scarcely conceivable that so base, so heartless a reptile could be 
found connected with that ancient and honourable profession. We have 
hitherto looked for friends there, not for vipers : we have looked for in- 
tegrity, not for abomination. I admit this unhappy lady's fall. I admit 
her utter worthlessness, but, not being skilled in that atrocious, that ex- 
ecrable species of necromancy, of which the defendant is so perfect a 
master, I cannot pretend to tell you by what witchcraft — by what hellcrafl 
— he succeeded in destroying the soul of such a woman, by prompting 
her thus to disgrace and dishonour so fond, so affectionate, so doting a 
husband. And no^v, having thus briefly dra^vn the faint outline of this 
most abominable case, I have to direct your attention, gentlemen, to 
the only question open for your consideration — for the pleas of the de- 
fendant are not worth a rush — namely, what damages you ought to give 
the plaintiff. 

'' Had it pleased heaven 
To try him with affliction; had it rained 
AH kinds of sores and shiunes on his bare hcad| 



THE SOMNAMBULIST. 313 

Steeped him in poverty to the very lips. 

Given to captivity him and his hopes, 

He would have found in some part of his soul 

A drop of patience: 

But there, where he had gamer'd up hfs heart, 

Where either he must live or bear no life, 

The fountain, from the which his current runs 

Or else dries up: to be discarded thence!" — 

Turn your complexion there, gentlemen, and say what damages you 
ought to give him. Deeply do I lament that an injured husband has 
no other remedy : deeply do I regret that the legislature of this great 
nation has not made the outrage a criminal offence. He who steals your 
purse, steals trash : yet he forfeits his liberty — ^it may be, his life : but 
he who basely plunders you of the dearest treasure of your heart of 
hearts, escapes, if rich, with comparative impunity. But the law is so, 
and your award can be merely that of money. And how are you to 
calculate the damages? There is but one rule — * Do as you would be 
done by.' Many of you are basking in the light of wedded love — 
blessed with a home to which you turn as to a haven from the storms of 
life, surroimded by joys, and sipping bliss from the lips of her whom 
you dearly love. What would you take to have this vision dissipated? 
What would you take to lose her? What you would take in such a case, 
give! — awai'd that which you woidd feel yourselves justified in receiving. 
The damages are laid at five thousand pounds. Would you think 
that sum too much for you to receive? Do I insidt you by the ques- 
tion? No ; not I. It is the law that interrogates you. ' Do as you 
would be done by.' If you think that that simi would be too much for 
you, give my client what you would think enough. Place yourselves 
individually in his position, and say wjiat you — ^feeling the earthquake 
of your happiness beneath you, and losing round for one last prop to 
cling to, and seeing the visions you had cherished, the bliss you had 
enjoyed, the hopes you had idolised, with every household deity dearest 
and most divine, shivered to atoms round the hearth where they were 
worshipped — s«iy what you would consider a sufficient compensation. 
Gentlemen, I now leave the case of my unhappy client — deprived as he 
has been by the vile, insidious arts of the defendant, of the society of her 
who formed the lovely centre of his happy circle — with the most entire 
confidence, in your hands. Your verdict must be for the plaintiff, of 
course. The only point for you to consider is, that which has reference 
to compensation. What you think would compensate you in such a 
case, award him. * Do as you would be done by!* " 

This address, of course, produced an extraordinary sensation. The 
great majority of those who were in court thought that the verdict must 
be for the whole five thousand : that Sir Charles deserved it, and that 
he, therefore, ought to have it. 

James Thompson, the butler, was then called and sworn. 

" Your name is James Thompson, I believe," said Mr. Phillpots. 

" It is," replied the butler. 

" You hold the situation of butler in Sir Charles's estaWishment?^ 

"I do." 



114 VnTBtnB iOUlTD 

*' And have held it for the last seren yean?^ 

" I have." 

'^ Do you remember the morning of the 5th of lact mo&thr' 

"I do." 

" State to the court what then occurred." 

*^ About three o^clock that morning, on going up stainy I saw Mr. 
Sound coming slowly from the ante-room which leads to Lady Julian'ii 
chamber, and conceiving that he had called professionallyi I retained, 
opened the door, and let him out.** 

" You know the defendant well?" 

"Quite well." 

" You know the defendant quite well. Now, just pay attention to 
the question Fm about to ask. Is it possibh for you to hare been mis- 
taken?" 

"No: that is quite impossible.** 

" Quite impossible. Did you let him in?* 

"No." 

" Who let him m?" 

" I can't say." 

" Did either of the other servants let him in?" 

" They all declare that they did not." 

" Is there any window through which he might have entered?** 

" There is no window he could have got in at." 

" Then the presumption is, that Lady Julian let him in herself?** 

"I don't know; but I think that if she had let him in, she would 
also have let him out." 

" I don't ask you what you think! You didn't let him in, nor did 
either of the other servants let him in. The presumption, therefore, is 
that she let him in herself. But you are quite sure that it was Mr. 
Sound, the defendant, whom you saw coming slowly from the ante- 
room, and whom you let out of the house?" 

" I am quite sure." 

" That you swear to?" 

"I do." 

« Solemnly?" 

" Most solemly." 

Mr. Slashinger then rose to cross-examine this witness. 

" You know Mr. Sound, the defendant in this action, quite well?** 

"I do." 

" You have known him for some years?** 

" I have." 

" As the assistant of Mr. Scholefield, the medical adviser of Lftdy 
Julian, he used to come frequently to the house?" 

" Very frequently." 

" Both with Mr. Scholefield, and alone?" 

" Very frequently alone." 

" Now, Mr. Thompson, I am going to put to you a most important 
question, and jrour well-known honesty and integrity prompts xne to 
believe that you wiU answer it in a candid and straightforward maimer. 



THB SOMNAMBUUBT. ZIB 

Did you ever, at any time, see anything in the conduct of Lady Julian 
to induce you to believe that she was not strictly virtaous?'' 

" Never, sir! never 1" replied Thompson, with emotion. " Nor do I 
believe that she is not virtuous now." 

" You do not 1 What not after the eloquent speech of my learned friend !" 

" That has not shaken my belief: nor do I think that if Sir Gharki 
had been here, he would have allowed him to go on so. So much 
about the money!" 

^^ I repeat," said Mr. PhiUpots, rising indignantly, ^' I tell you again 
that we don't ask you what you think. Answer the questions that aie 
put to you, sir." 

" I do to the best of my ability." 

^< Then," resumed Mr. Slashinger, '^ 3rou still believe Lady Julian to 
be virtuous?" 

"I do." 

<^ Sir Charles was not at home, I believe, when you saw Mr. Sound 
on that occasion?" 

" He was not." 

" You have no idea how he got in?'* 

" I have not the slightest." 

" Were you in the house the whole of the morning in question?" 

" Except for a few moments, when I went to speaJc to the butler at 
the house adjoining." 

" Did you leave the door open — or partially open— when you went 
to speak to the butler?" 

"I did." 

" Might not Mr. Sound have walked in while you were absent?" 

" He certainly might have done so." 

" He might have done so. And you believe, notwithstanding you 
saw Mr. Soimd coming slowly from the ante-room, that Lady Julian ii 
virtuous still." 

" I do. I don't believe she knew that he was there." 

" How did he look when you let him out? At all conftwed?" 

" No : calm and serious." 

" Did he make any observation?" 

"None." 

" Then he walked straight out, and took no notice?" 

" He did." 

"Very weU." 

" And now," said Mr. PhiUpots, who looked very fierce, *• /am about 
to put a question, which, from * your well-known honesty and integrilj,* 
to use the flowing language of my learned friend, I expect you, in a 
candid and straightforward manner, to answer. When did you see thfe 
defendant's attorney last?" 

" I never did see him to my knowledge.** 

" But you have seen his clerk, haven't you?" 

" Not to my knowledge." 

** Is it not indiscreet," said Mr. Clark, in a whisper, ** to throw a douM 
upon any portion of the evidence of our own witness?^ 



316 fTLVSflTBK SOUVD 

Mr. Phillpots winked at Mr. Clark, and then resumed. 

** It was i^ut three o clock when you saw the defendant coming from 
the ante-room leading to Lady Julian's chamber?^ 

" About three.'' 

^ And you couldn't by any possibility have mistaken any one else for 
the defendant?" 

" I could not. The thing is impossible." 

" Impossible. Very well. That will do." 

This was the case for llie plaintiff; and, after a pause, Mr. Slashinger 
rose, and said — 

" My lord and gentlemen of the jury. My learned friend, with his 
usual tact, having but one single fact to adduce, has brought forward a 
multitude of figures. Knowing the actual weakness of his case, he has 
endeavoured to strengthen it with flights of fancy: feeling that the soli- 
tary point for you to consider was of itself insufficient, his object has 
been to carry away your judgment by a flaming flood of forensic elo- 
quence. That object however has not been accomplished. If it had 
been, it would have been my duty to bring you back to the point from 
which you started. But as I feel that I have now to address intelligent 
men — ^men who will not suffer their judgment to be carried away so 
easily — ^my task is comparatively light. Grentlemen, what are the facts 
of the case? — ^nay, rather let me say what is the fact? — there being but 
one at present for your consideration. The fact, gentlemen, is, that the 
witness Thompson, swears that he saw the defendant at the time in 
question walking — slowly walking — ^from the ante-room which leads to 
Lady Julian's chamber. Now, gentlemen, I am not about to impugn 
Thompson's evidence. He gave it in a very proper manner, and I take 
it for granted that he believes that which he stated to be true. He may 
be correct. The defendant may have been there: he may have walked 
from the ante-room slowly: he may have been let out by Thompson : he 
may have been seen to pass the gate by Sir Charles. I don't know that 
he was not — nor does the defendant! — but if he tvere there, he was there 
while in a state of somnambulism! [This announcement created an 
extraordinary sensation. Even the reverend gentleman, whom the speech 
of Mr. Phillpots had perfectly bewildered, rubbed his hands, and smiled.] 
Gentlemen," continued the learned counsel, " unhappily my client is a 
confirmed somnambulist. I shall prove that to your entire satisfaction 
anon. At present I feel it to be my duty to account for his presence — 
for I assume that he was present — at the house of Sir Charles Julian on 
the occasion in question. Gentlemen, somnambulists generally, when 
asleep remember everything which occurs to them while awake, but they 
remember nothing when awake which happens while they are asleep. I 
beg of you to bear this in mind. The defendant, Mr. Soimd, lived for 
the period of five years with Mr. Scholefield, Lady Julian's medical 
attendant. During that period, as the witness has told us, he was fre- 
quently — very frequently — at the house of Sii* Charles. Now, gentle- 
men, may I not venture to say, that on the morning in question, he 
dreamt that Lady Julian required his professional attendance, and that 
acting on that dream, he rose and went to the house? You have heard 



THE SOMNAMBULIST. 317 

Thompson state that he left the door open when he went to speak to the 
butler, at the house adjoining: you have also heard him state that the 
defendant might have entered the house during his absence. Now, is it 
too much to assume, knowing him to be a confirmed somnambtdist, that 
the defendant did enter the house at that time, and with no other view 
than that of attending to Lady Julian professionally? I do submit, 
gentlemen, that when I have proved, as I shall prove beyond all question, 
that my client is a somnambulist, the case will be, in your judgment, 
perfectly clear. As to Lady Julian, I believe her to be still strictly 
virtuous, still pure : and in that belief I am joined, as you have heard 
by the witness Thompson, who has had the most ample opportunities of 
observing her character and conduct. Gentiemen, my firm impression 
is, that this proceeding on the part of Sir Charles Julian ought to cause 
him to blush. He married Lady Julian in all the pride of youth and 
beauty; he himself being rather advanced in years; and, although I will 
not say that it is natural for an old man to be jealous of a yoimg and 
lovely wife, I may say, that it is too c^len the case, and that the slightest 
circimistance is sufficient to create suspicion. I have, however, no desire 
to dwell upon this point. He saw the defendant coming fix)m the house : 
his suspicion was aroused, and he brought this action: for damages!-— 
for compensation, for the loss of her whom, on these slight grounds, he 
turned out of his house, and who never was unfaithful to him. I do 
not envy the feelings of that man: I do not envy the feelings of any 
man who, on such slender grounds, casts * his soul's idol ' off — ^his soul's 
idol — ^psha! — ^it is sickening. But, gentlemen, he wants compensation — 
he wants money! yes: he wants you to award him an immense amount 
of money. Well, if you think him entitled to it, of course you'll award 
it. I would merely submit that such grovelling ideas do not in general 
co-exist with affection. Money is his suit ! Well, let him have money, 
if you think that he has been injured — ^if you can believe Lady Julian to 
be impure. I shall not say one word in mitigation of damages — > no 
damage has been sustained by Sir Charles. I will prove to you that 
the defendant is a somnambulist, and I have so much confidence in 
your judgment, that you will see that the object of Sir Charles Julian is 
money, that Lady Jrdian is still virtuous, still pure, that the defendant 
went to the house while under the influence of a dream, and that there- 
fore he is entitled to your verdict." 

The learned counsel then called Thomas Delolme, who promptly ap- 
peared in the box, and was sworn. 

" Mr. Delolme," said Mr. Slashinger, " you are a medical man?" 

" I ab," replied Tom. 

" You have, I believe, an extensive practice?" 

" Dot very extedsive! About a thousadd a year." 

'^ About a thousand a year. You are intimately acquainted with 
Mr. Sound, the defendant in this action?" 

"lab." 

" Is it your impression that he is a somnambulist?" 

"It is." 

"Tell the court how that impression was created*" 



390 nXTXtTEB BOUVD 

*' But, my lord/' said the reverend gentleman, addressing the bench. 

" Mr. Ilouse/* interposed Mr. Slashinger, " you have given your evidence 
very clearly. You have not the slightest doubt of his being a somnam- 
bulist, but you do not feel justified in swearing that he is one, seeing 
that you have never exactly discovered him in a state of sonmambu- 
lism/' 

" Exactly. That's what I mean. Exactly." 

" Very good." 

The reverend gentleman then left the box, but he was not by any 
means satisfied. 

This being the case for the defendant, Mr. Charles Phillpots rose to 
reply. 

" In all my experience, gentlemen," said he; "I never met with any- 
thing more absurd than this defence. It is the most ridiculous on 
record. Somnambulism! Let us but once admit this plea, and we 
may shut up every court of justice in the empire. A man may seduce 
your wife, and plead somnambulism: he may ruin your daughters, and 
plead somnambulism: he may pick your pocket, and plead somnambu- 
lism : he may knock you down, and plead somnambulism : he may even 
murder you, and pl^ul somnambulism: nay, there's nothing which he 
could do, that he might not do, and put in the plea of somnambulism. 
Can my learned friend produce any witness to prove that his client was 
in a state of somnambulism when he left Lady Julian's chamber? No! 
Somnambulism, indeed! The idea is preposterous! Suppose that 
either of you gentlemen, on going home to-night, were to find a man in 
your chamber: what would you think of his plea of somnambu- 
lism? Suppose that, on your way home, a fellow were to stop you, and 
rob you of your watch, what woidd you think of Aisplea of somnambu- 
lism? Suppose that I were to say that I thought you sufficiently foolish 
to entertain such an absurdity, what would you say to my plea of som- 
nambulism? Somnambulism, forsooth! Why, there isn't a crime 
under heaven that might not be committed with absolute impunity, if 
once we admitted, in justification, the monstrous plea of somnambulism. 
Repudiate it, gentlemen, with scorn. Treat it with the contempt it so 
richly deserves. I am amazed that, in this enlightened age — in the 
middle of the nineteenth century — ^and in a country boasting, and justly 
too, its high and refined state of civilisation — ^such an absurd, such a 
perfectly ridiculous plea, as that of somnambulism, should have been 
entered. Why, gentlemen, it must be imagined that you are idiots — if, 
indeed, it be imagined that you are capable of entertaining such a vile 
plea as this! Repudiate it, gentlemen, indignantly. Look to the plain- 
tiff, whose heart's dearest treasiu-e has been stolen from him by the in- 
sidious arts of this somnambulist, and give exemplary damages, con- 
vinced, as you must be, that he has been abused, and that his relief must 
be to loathe her!" 

His lordship then briefly summed up, and the jury, without retiring, 
returned a verdict for the Plaintiff — Damages £2,000. 



THE SOMNAMBULIST. 821 

CHAPTER XXXVI. 

SYLVESTER'S NEW PROTECTOR. 

It is extremely questionable whether a trial ever yet gave unmixed 
satisfaction to either of the parties concerned. In civil cases, especially, 
there is sure to be, in the judgment of either the plaintiff or the de- 
fendant — and almost invaiiably in the view of both — something left 
undone which ought to have been done, or something done which ought 
not to have been done. Sometimes the attornies are censured, some- 
times the counsel, sometimes the witnesses, sometimes the jury, and 
sometimes the judge; but, most certainly, a case in which they all 
escaped censure, is not be formd on record. 

It will not, therefore, be held to be extraordinary, that neither the 
plaintiff nor the defendant in this ax^tion was satisfied with the result. 
Sylvester could not have been expected to be; but, as it may have 
been expected that Sir Charles would be satisfied, it will be quite 
correct here to state that he was not. In his view, his own counsel 
made him appear to be most sordid. Money was not his object. His 
object was to establish legally the assumed guilt of Lady Julian with 
a view to a divorce. He was, therefore, not satisfied at all with his own 
counsel: nor was he satisfied with the counsel for the defendant: the 
remarks of both, in his judgment, tended to place him in a ridiculous 
and contemptible light; and he, consequently, after the trial, felt 
wretched. 

Sylvester, however, had not the wretched feelings of Sir Charles. He 
saw, of course, the importance of the verdict: he feared that it might, 
in a professional sense, effect his ruin: still, being perfectly conscious of 
his innocence, and having the sympathy of all around him, it cannot — 
although he was dreadfiiUy annoyed — it cannot be said that he felt 
wretched. Aimt Eleanor was far more deeply affected ; and, as to the 
reverend gentleman, he absolutely swelled with indignation J He was 
indignant with the attorney, indignant with the counsel, indignant with 
the jury, indignant with the judge. They were all, in his view, lost to 
every sense of justice. And yet he felt strongly that, if he had been 
allowed to give his evidence in his OAvn way, the jury would not have 
dared to return a verdict for the plaintiff. 

"What!" he exclaimed. "Is it— can it be possible — ^that in a 
country like this — a Christian country — a country in which the prin- 
ciples of Christianity are professed and entertained more extensively, 
perhaps, than in any other country upon earth — is it possible that 
twelve men — ^twelve Christian men— can deliberately take a solemn 
oath to give a verdict according to the evidence, and then, having heard 
that evidence adduced, return such a verdict as this! Why, it really is 

z 



STtVESTEB aOUMD 

fearful to contemplate! Those men must be guilty of perjury; and 
perjury b one of the most dreadful crimes that a man can possibly lay 
upon his soul! I should much like to talk to those men — to explain to 
them the peril in which they have placed themselves, not only in this 
world, but in the world to come! If I do not mistake, a perjurer, even 
here, is liable to be punished with very great severity. Surely, tiiey cannot 
be cognisant of this! — cleaving entirely out of the question the awful 
fact of their rendering themselves amenable to a much greater punish- 
ment hereafter! They really ought to be seen and talked to, and lec- 
tured, and expostulated widi! the crime of which they have been 
guilty, is in its nature dreadM!'' 

" I do not think," observed Mr. Delolme, " that we are justified in 
accusing them of having conunitted perjury.** 

'^ But, my dear sir; just look at the nature of the evideaoe! Did not 
Mr. Thomas swear positively that poor Sylvester was a somnambulist? 
And did not I swear as positively and as solemnly, that I had not the 
slightest doubt of the fact? Ought not that to have been sufiicient? 
And were they not bound to return a verdict accordingly?" 

" Certainly, they were bound to return a verdict according to the 
evidence, but not according to your evidence alone: they were bound 
to look at the evidence opposed to yours, and to weigh it with yours, 
and thus to decide." 

"Then it follows that they treated my evidence and that of Mr. 
Thomas with contempt!" 

" Not necessarily. They might have felt that vou both swore to the 
best of your belief, and yet conceived that your evidence was insufficient 
to establish the fact of Sylvester being a somnambulist.'* 

" I only wish that I had been one of the jury.*' 

" If you had been, a very different verdict would doubtless have been 
returned; but we must remember that those gentlemen were perfect 
strangers to Sylvester. They knew nothing either of him, or of the 
circumstances, previously to their coming into court ; and, while they 
manifestly conceived your evidence and that of Tom to be insufficient, 
tliey were strongly impressed by the counsel with the danger of allowing 
such a plea as that of somnambulism to obtain." 

" I am aware of its being a plea which might easily be in all cases 
lu-ged; and I hold the necessity for proving it to be absolute: all I 
contend for is, that in this particular case, it ivas sufficiently proved! 
And then, that man, the counsel — that barrister — ^that Mr. Charles 
PhiUpots — what right had he to apply such abominable epithets to a 
person of whom he knew nothing. He ought to be talked to severely! 
He ought to be told that the character of Sylvester is the reverse of 
that which he represented it to be. I have really no patience with a 
man who will thus traduce the character of another without grounds. I 
only wish that I had been Sylvester's counsel : I should have told that 
person, without the slightest hesitation, that the com*se he was pursuing 

was most unwarrantable ! I should have told him so publicly ^before 

the whole court. And then the judge: we really might as well have 
had no judge at all! he did not conduct himself at all like a judge! he 



THE SOMNAMBULIST. 323 

gave no judgment whatever upon the matter! I only wish that I had 
been the judge I But is there no appeal from this verdict? Would not 
a well'drawn^up protest have a very great effect?" 

" We might move for a new trial, certainly." 

" Then let us have a new trial: by all means let us have a new trial. 
That will be the very thing 1" 

" I fear that unless we have much stronger evidence to produce, a 
new trial — if we obtained it — ^would be worse than useless." 

" But we have stronger evidence ! My evidence might be stronger- 
much stronger — ^I am sure of it!" 

The doctor shook his head, and having observed that that point had 
better be left to the lawyers, retired. 

How often men know what they ought to have said when the occasion 
for saying it is passed ! How forcible — ^liow eloquent in public, reflec- 
tion proves that they might have been! The reverend gentleman had 
much afterwit. He saw, on reflection, invariably — for reflection invari- 
ably came when he had spoken — ^that he had omitted to say much that 
he ought to have said, and that that which he did say, he might have 
said better. He was very seldom called upon to make a speech in 
public — ^his sermons required no subsequent reflection— but whenever 
he did make a public speech, the whole of the next day was devoted to 
its improvement. He would repeat it privately again and again, and 
polish every point he found in it, and if — as was sometimes the case — 
no point could be found, he would make one, and then polish that. 
He did on one occasion try a speech which he had written and learned 
by rote, but as he broke the thread in the middle and couldn't find the 
piece that came off, he abandoned that system-*— which is at best but a 
deceit — ^and stuck to the extemporaneous. Still, as he never made a 
speech which he did not subsequently very much improve, he never saw 
a speech of his in type which gave him the slightest satisfaction. 
There was always something said which ought to have been omitted, or 
something omitted which ought to have been said ; and as his speeches, 
when in type, were never, in his judgment, what they ought to have 
been, the fact, that his evidence, when in type, gave him no sort of 
pleasure, cannot create much surprise. He was, indeed, exceedingly 
dissatisfied with it. He really felt ashamed of its appearance in print, 
and hence, being conscious — ^perfectly conscious— of his ability to give 
better evidence than that, he strongly iu*ged the expediency of having 
a new trial. 

By the advice of Mr. Scholefield, however, the idea of moving for a 
new trial was abandoned, and the reverend gentleman no sooner became 
cognisant of this than he went to work and conceived a scheme, of 
which the object was to settle the matter at once. He had a little 
money in the fimds : he had, in fact, four thousand pounds in the three- 
and-a-^half p^ cents ; he therefore resolved on selling out to the extent 
required, and taking the two thousand pounds himself to Sir Charles 
Julian, unknown to any other living soul. 

In this fcheme ** costs" were not contemplated : the. idea of costs never 
occurred to him : he fondly imagined that Sir Charles would take the 



324 SYLVESTER SOUND 

%wo thousand pounds and give him a receipt in fully and that there, as 
fiur as Sylvester was concerned, the whole matter would end. 

He accordingly went to a broker whom he knew near the Exchange, 
and the sale of two thousand pounds stock was efiected; but as he 
wished to expostulate with Sir Charles when he had paid him, and felt 
that such an expostulation as that which he contemplated required 
some previous thought, he returned to the residence of Dr. Delolme, 
with the view of rehearsing the most important points. 

On his return, however, he found Mr. Scholefield there, engaged in 
advising both Sylvester and his aunt to return at once to Gotherstone — 
to leave the whole management of the matter to him, and to feel assured 
that all would yet be well — which advice was no sooner communicated 
to the reverend gentleman, than he intimated to Mr. Scholefield that he 
wished to speak with him in piivate, and they accordingly withdrew to 
another room. 

" My dear sir," said he, " I know and appreciate your worth ; I know 
that you are a dear friend of Sylvester: I have the highest opinion of 
your judgment, and therefore deem it prudent to follow your advice: 
but will you — pardon me — ^willyou, for my own satisfaction, explain to 
me your reasons for believing that all will yet be well?" 

"Certainly," replied Mr. Scholefield, "with pleasure. I have just 
left Sir Charles, who is not at all satisfied now. The verdict of the juiy 
has failed to convince him of his wife's infidelity. I find that, on the 
contrary, he is open to the conviction of her innocence ; and I know 
him so well, that I feel that I shall eventually be able to satisfy him 
that Sylvester is a somnambulist, and thereby to prove to him, beyond 
all doubt, that Lady Julian herself is still virtuous — still pure." 

"'V\Tiy," exclaimed the reverend gentleman, "that is exactly my idea ! 
my view of the matter precisely ! I will now impai-t to you a most pro- 
found secret — a secret which I did not intend to reveal, but wliich I 
know will be faithfuUy kept by you. I have been this morning into the 
City to sell out two thousand poimds stock. I have the money here," 
he added, producing his pocket-book, " and what I intended to do with 
it was this: I intended to take it at once to Sir Charles, and, having paid 
him, to adduce such a body of evidence as could not, I apprehend, fail 
to convince him that he had been perfectly iminjured. I intended to 
say to him solemnly, * Sir Charles — ' " 

" I see," interposed Mr. Scholefield : "I see ; and, believe me, I highly 
appreciate your motive : but I hope that there will be now no necessity 
for this." 

" But don't you think that if I were to call and offer him the money—" 

" Why, my dear sir, if even he felt incHned to demand it, he would 
not receive it himself!" 

" He would not?" 

" Oh, dear me, no ; he'd refer you at once to his attorney, whom the 
two thousand pounds wouldn't satisfy, believe me!" 

" What, would he want more?" 

" He would present you with a document called a bill of costs which 
might in some slight degree astonish you." 



THK SOMNAMBULIST. 32o 

" Well, but do you not think that if I were to call upon Sir Charles 
and offer hiui the money, and tell him that his attorney's bill, whatever 
it miglit be, would be paid when presented, it would afford me an 
excellent opportunity for explaining to him the whole of my views on 
the subject, and laying before him that body of evidence which, I should 
say, must of necessity convince him that Sylvester is innocent?" 

" It is possible that it might aiford you this opportimity : I very much 
doubt that it would; but if it did, in my opinion, the pursuit of such 
a course would be imprudent. The very fact of your offering him the 
money would incense him, and the chances are that the interview would 
be instantly at an end. He is not a common man: he is not a man to be 
taken by storm. * Let us,* said he to me, this morning, * let us, if pos- 
sible, get at the tinith — ^let us conduct this investigation calmly — ^let us 
proceed quietly and privately — it is not, of course, proper that the ex- 
istence of any doubt on my mind should be kno^vn.* I tell you this in 
confidence, and I am sure that you vnll perceive that the adoption of 
the course which you proposed, although laudable — ^highly laudable— 
in itself, would be, under existing circumstances, imprudent." 

" Well, then, what would you advise me to do?" 

" I should advise you in the first place to re-fund the money ; in the 
second, to return to Cotherstone "svith Sylvester and his aunt; and, in the 
third, to write out a statement of facts, which, as collateral evidence, I 
may place before Sir Charles." 

"Very good: very good. This shall be done. But mind! you must 
promise that — unknown to any living creature — ^you will send to me, 
and to me alone, in the event of this money being required." 

" I pledge you my honour that I will do so." 

" Very good. We can keep it to ourselves, you know; if it should 
be required, we can keep it to ourselves. If she were to know it, she 
would insist upon repaying me ; and I would not have her income limited 
for the world. Mr. Scholefield," he added, pressing his hand warmly, 
" God vnW bless you for the interest you have taken in this matter. 
You are a good man : a good man : you'll have your reward. Now I'll 
go and urge them to start to-morrow morning. I'll in every particular 
follow your advice : I'll return to the City and refund this money, and 
send the statement up as soon as possible." 

Mr. Scholefiekl then left him with many wann expressions of esteem, 
and he at once retiuned to Sylvester and his aunt, with the view of 
urging them to leave on the following morning. 

" You have heard," said he, " what Mr. Scholefield has said, and Mr. 
Scholefield is a most sincere friend. We haven't a friend more sincere 
— ^we haven't a friend more valuable than Mr. Scholefield: you will 
know how valuable a friend he is anon. Now his advice is, that we 
return to the Grange immediately. What say you? When shall we 
start? I have to send up to him in the course of a few days a most 
important communication, and in order that I may do so, it will be 
necessary for me to start to-morrow. Wliat do you think? Shall we 
all go together in the morning?" 

** i have no objection," said Sylvester. " Have you, aunt?" 



326 STLYKSTEB BOUMD 

" No, my lov«; I liave uone whatever." 

'* Well, theu/' resumed the reverend gentlenum, ^^rappote we make 
up otir minds to go?" 

*' I am quite willing,"^ replied Aunt Eleanor. 

'* Then we*ll go/* said the reverend gentteman— ** well go. I have 
miich to tell you on the road ; and much more to tell 700 boA when we 
get home. I feel assured that all will be right. At present I mnsl say 
no more. I have to go into the City on a Httle matter of bnsiiiess, bi^ 
1 shall very soon be back. Good bjre. Qod bless yoa both. Keep up 
your spirits. We shall very soon get over this: very soon: Fm nmai 
it. rU be back — let me see— in an hour and a hal£" 

Their departure in the morning having thus been decided upon, Syl* 
vester and his aunt, whom the important communioation of Mr. Schde* 
field had greatly relieved, went to make a few farewell calls, and returned 
to the doctor's to dinner. Mr. Scholefield joined tbem, and ao did Tom 
— who was in the highest possible spirits — and everything passed off 
cheerfully. Even Mrs. Delolme was seen to smile, for she now for the 
first time thought it poisible that Sylvester was innocent!— ^which was 
charitable — ^very ! — and hence couldn't fail to be appreciated. 

Having spent an agreeable evening, Tom, as usual, claimed his " pri- 
soder ;'* and when he had promised to deliver him and his chains into 
the hands of the reverend gentleman in the morning, he retired, and took 
Sylvester home with hira, and gave him a most recherche sapper. 

"Add dow, by boy,** said he, having explained to Sylvester that he 
was going with Scholefield to liave an interview with Sir Charles, '' how 
do ycni bead to badage batters whed you get hobe?" 

" Manage matters V 

" Ayi'. How do yoii bead to secure yourself at dight?" 

"Oil! I understand. Why, I scarcely know how I*m to manage 
down there." 

" You dodt thidk of sleepidg with the reveredd swell, I aupposcT^ 

" Not exactly." 

" Doe: I should say that's he's ad out add out sdorer!" 

" I don't know about that, but I thought of being sectu^ed every night 
to the })ed-post." 

" You bad better have sobe wud id the roob. Whftt do you thidk of 
wud ol' the baids?" 

" I'd better have them both!" returned Sylvester, smiling. "But I 
don't see the necessity for having any one at all." 

" If you have dot you are perfectly sure to get away. Sobdabbulists 
are the host idgedious fellows alive. If lefl by thebselves they cad dever 
be safe. You, for exabple, bight ibagide that you were id prisod, add 
if you nt the sabe tibe felt boudd to break out of it, I dodt thidk 
that you linvc ady roob id your cottngo sufficiedtly strodg to prevedt 
you." 

"Well, then, I'd better have Judkins in the room." 

"Who's Judkids?" 

" The gardener." 

" Have Judkids tlad. Hut as doe cobbod scrubbidg ever got a gar- 



THE SOMNAMBULIST. 327 

deder dead, I would suggest that you had better have hib boiled every 
dight." 

"Oh! I don't intend to let him sleep with me. We can make up a 
bed by the side of mine." 

" Add secure yourself to hib ?" 

"Exactly." 

"You haved't chaid edough! That, however, cad sood be badaged. 
We cad get ad additiodal ledgth id the bordidg." 

This point having been settled, they reverted to the fact of Sir Charles 
being " open to conviction;" and having discussed it till half-past twelve, 
they made up their minds to retire. But Tom had a very poor night 
of it. Between one and four his rest was constantly broken, for the 
supper and the wine of which Sylvester had partaken, caused him to 
have a variety of dreams, which prompted him tmconsciously several 
times to pull Tom nearly out of bed. He was, however, after foui', 
suffered to sleep, which, as far as it went, was a blessing; but when ho 
rose about half-past six, he didn't look fresh at all. He was, notwith- 
standing, in very fair spirits, and rallied his prisoner gaily, and then 
went with him to get a longer chain, which they had no sooner bought, 
than they entered a cab, and proceeded at once to the doctor's. 

On their arrival, they found the doctor and Mrs. Delolme, Aimt 
Eleanor, and the reverend gentleman at breakfast, and when Tom had 
formally delivered up his prisoner, they joined them, and made a very 
fair meal — considering! 

At the suggestion of the reverend gentleman — who always appeared 
anxious to be at the office at least twenty minutes before the coach 
started — ^the ladies soon after this retired, and when they returned 
dressed — ^for Mrs. Delolme had most graciously insisted upon seeing 
Aunt Eleanor safely to the coach — the reverend gentleman and Tom 
entered the doctor's carriage with the ladies, while Sylvester mounted 
the box. 

On their arrival at Charing-cross, it was found that they were just 
half an hour too soon, which the reverend gentleman pointedly sub- 
mitted was better than being half an hoiu* too late. The propriety and 
truth of this original observation were indisputable of course, and Tom 
had him out of the carriage in consequence, and walked with him and 
Sylvester up and down the Strand until the horses were in, when he 
and Aunt Eleanor entered the coach, and Sylvester, who did not like 
riding inside, took his favourite seat on the box. 

" Well, adieu !" said Tom, taking the hand of Aunt Eleanor, and 
pressing it with somewhat unusual warmth. " Good bye! — ^ood bye! 
I shall rud dowd to Cotherstode wud of these days, add whed I do cobe, 
if you should be sidgle, the codsequedce bust be a batch." 

Aunt Eleanor smiled as she bade him adieu, and so did her reverend 
friend, who, moreover, declared that he should be happy to see him, and 
wished him to name the time; but before he coidd answer, the coach- 
man cried " All right!— chit, chit!" and they were off. 

Now it is in reality a singular thing — ^Aunt Eleanor couldn't pretend 
to account for it — but the journey always did appear to her to be 



328 STLVBSTBR SOUND 

short wlieu ber reverend friend travelled vriik her. It is, moreover, 
strange — ^remarkably strange — that she never felt fittigued when he was 
with her. She reaUy did think that she could travel a thousand miles 
with him, without feeling anything like so tired aa she always had felt 
af^cr travelling fifty miles without him. Now this is, of course, an ez- 
traoi-diuary fact — a fact whicli is worthy of being placed upon record. 
"Whenever she had travelled by herself, or with strangers, or even in 
company with any other friend, she had always felt tired aiier the first 
twenty miles; but with him! — ^there, she positively thought that she 
could travel with him every day for a week, without feeling, in the 
slightest degree, fatigued. As to the journey from London to Cother- 
stone, why, it appeared to be nothing. They started from Charing- 
cross, chatted all the way, arrived within a mile and a half of the 
Grange, and there they were. It was so in this instance. They had a 
most agreeable journey; and Sylvester rendered it still more agreeable 
by coming down to speak to them whenever they changed horses. It 
was, indeed, essentially a journey of pleasure. Aunt Eleanor never 
enjoyed herself more: they appeared to have been but a very short 
time on tlie road, when the reverend gentleman exclaimed, '* Here we are!" 

The coach stopped ; and instantly Jones with the phaeton, and Jud- 
kins with the pony, stood Lclore them; and, as they had decided upon 
sending the luggage on, in less than ten minutes they were home. 

Sylvester's first object now was to communicate to Judkins all that 
had reference to his bedroom plans, and, therefore, having partaken 
freely of the elegant little dinner prepared for them, he went out, and 
fo\md him in the tool-house. 

*' Judkins," said he; " do you know what a somnambulist is?" 

"A somnambulist, sir? I think it's a species of convolvolus; but 
there is such a mob of names now, that I don't exactly know." 

" Then I'll tell you. A somnambulist, Judkins, is a sleep-walker — a 
person — " 

*' Oh, ay, yes, just so, exactly! /thought you meant something in 
)ny way! I see! A somnambulist! Oh, yes, /'ve heered on 'em; / 
know what they are." 

" Well, then," said Sylvester, "/ am a somnambulist." 

'' Lor, you don't say so! You one!" 

'' Unhappily, I am." 

** Lor, I shouldn't have thought it. As true as I'm alive, sir, I couldn't 
have believed it. Well, but — Lor bless me, you don't mean to say that 
you get up o' nights and walk about, and all that?" 

" Yes, Judkins, I have long been in the habit of doing all that." 

*' Why, then — why, look here — you can't be safe to be trusted. You 
ought to have somebody always to sit up with you." 

" I have rendered that unnecessar}^ I'll explain to you how. Since 
I made the discovery I have slept with a gentleman, to whom I have been 
secured — that is to say, fastened by means of a small chain, reaching 
from his wrist to mine, so that — " 

"Exactly!" interposed Judkins; ^* I see, sir! Capital; you couldn't 
get away from him no how, then?" 



THE SOMNAMBULIST. 329 

" No, that was impossible ; and as this entirely supersedes tJie neces- 
sity for any one sitting up with me. I want you to sleep in my room 
for the present, in order that I may be still secure." 

"Just so: I see, sir: a capital plan." 

" You have, I presume, no objection?" 

"Objection, sir! No, not the leasest in life. I can have no objec- 
tion." 

" Well, then, you can bring youi' bed and bedstead, and place it by 
tlie side of mine, and — ^" 

" I'll manage that, sir." 

" There's plenty of room, I believe?" 

" Oceans ! But how long, sir, have you been going on so?" 

" I have reason to believe that I have been a somnambulist for years." 

"Indeed!" 

"You remember that, five years ago, a variety of pranks were 
played here?" 

" To be sure I do." 

" Those pranks, I have not the slightest doubt, were played by me. 
The horse was taken out of the stable, you know, frequently, and gal- 
loped round the country dimng the night, and brought home again in a 
state of exhaustion." 

" Well, but you don't mean to say you did that?" 

" I have no more doubt of it, than I have of my own existence." 

"Well, sir; but — send I may live— coidd you go to the stable, and 
mount the horse, and gallop like that, all the while you were asleep?" 

" I have done very many more extraordinary things than that." 

" I wonder you didn't pitch off and break your neck. I couldn't 
have believed it, if you hadn't told me ; and I can't understand it, I 
can't brain it now." 

"And then the ghost: why, I was the ghost!" 

" You was! Oh, what a kick up there's been about that ghost." 

" What, since I left?*' 

" The other day, sir. You know Drant, sir — Obadiah Drant — ^the 
man you was speaking to me about, you know, sir? Well, as he always 
knows everything nobody else knows, he set it about that he knew who 
the ghost was. He knew: he knew the man: and, on being pressed to 
tell who it was, he said that he knew that Bob Potts was the ghost. Well, 
this very soon got to Bob Potts's ears, and as soon as it did, Bob Potts 
hunted him up, and said to him quietly, ' A gentleman wants just to 
see you on the common.' * Who is it,' said Drant. * Oh, you'll see,' 
said Bob; *he wants to give you something: you'd better bring Mr. 
Pokey with you.' Well, innocent enough, he went, and took Pokey 
with him ; and when he got there, in course he asked where the gentle- 
man was. * / am the gentleman,' said Bob, * as wants to see you : I am 
the gentleman as wants to give you something. I'm the ghost, aint 1? 
You know I'm the ghost? Now, you must give me a sound out-and- 
out threshing, or I shall give you one : so pull off your coat.' * Just 
look you here,' said Drant, * if you lay a finger upon me, I'll take the 
law on you.' * Never mind the law,' said Bob ; * one on us must have 



3^) STLTBSTEB 80UVD 

a thixiflhiiig: so strip.* ' I sliaVt bemean mjself/ Mad Dmi. ' TWn 
take that; said Bob, ' to b^ii with.' And he hit kim a irander jut 
over the eyes. Well, this made Drant Datnrallj wild, and aa be tlien snr 
that he must fight, he pulled oiT his coat, and went at it. Boi, Lor! he 
couldn*t Ktand against Bob a minute and a half. In leas time than that 
Bob kept his promise, and gave him snch a tbroahing aa he meter had 
Ixsfore. I>rant then went off to a lawyer, and the lawyer reconmMnded 
him as a fHend not by no means to take oat a warrant; no, but to 
1)ring what he calls a action : so Bob has been served with a little sli^ 
of paper, and it's going to be settled at the 'sises. But nobodj pities 
Obiuliah: he's always a gabbling: he's always making mischief: he*s 
always setting people together by the cars. Bat it is aboat the rammest 
start in life, £ough, that you should be the ghost after alll Bdt didn't 
yoti never remember nothing about it in the morning?^ 

'* Nothing: all was to me a perfect blank." 

" Well that is stunning, sir. / call it stunning. However, you'll be 
.-ufe enough here, fll not let you go out, sir, Til warranto Another thing 
is, sir, you may depend upon me: for in coarse you wish me to keep it 
a secret?" 

'* I wish you to answer no impertinent questions; but as for aeciec}', 
that is now impossible, seeing that the fact has been published in all the 

*' Indeed, sir! Has it though, really?" 

" 1 Imve lately been concerned in a trial, and as the report of it will 
l>e, of coui'se, interesting to yow, I'll lend you the paper to read." 

** Vm o])lecdged to you, sir. I should uke to read it above all things 
in tlio world." 

*' You need not go and talk about it all over the village, although the 
.ill'air is (|uite sure to be known. There is, however, one thing which 
iKM'd not be known, and that is the plan which we are about to adopt 
Im'it. Cook and Mary will know, of course, that you sleep in my room, 
1)11 f v.xon they need know nothing beyond that fact." 

** They Bliail not know from mo, sir: depend upon that. I'll not open 
my lips to a singln soul." 

*' Very well. Then you had better go now and remove your bed. 
I )o you want any assistance?" 

" Not the leasest in life, sir. / shall be able to manage it alone. 
Hut Lor! — the ideorl AVlio could have thought it! But the paper, sir, 
please : I hope you'll not forget the paper?" 

" You shall have it the moment you have finished your job." 

"Thank you, sir; I'll bring it here to read. Not a soul shall set 
oyos on it, 1 11 take care of that. But of all the stunning things as I 
<!ver heored toll on, that of a man riding full gallop over the country fit 
to break his blessed nock, fast sloop, bangs Moses! It's a mercy 
you wanu't killed d(\ad upon tlic spot. However, there'll be no 
more of that while you're here; so I'll go at once, and get the bed 
ready." 

Ho did so ; and being most anxious to look at the paper, he resolved 
on being the very shortest possible time about it. He hadn't worked 



THE SOMNAMBULIST. 331 

SO hard for a considerable period: nor had he for many months per- 
spired so freely as he did while taking down his bedstead. 

"Judkins!" exclaimed cook, who heard him at work: "what on 
earth are you after? Are you going to knock the house down?" 

" Good luck to you," returned Judkins, " bring us a drop of beer." 

" But what are you about?" 

" Bring the beer up, old girl, and I'U tell you." 

Prompted by a natural feeling of curiosity, cook drew him some beer, 
and went up with it at once. 

" Why, what, in the name of goodness," she cried, " are you doing?" 

" Taking down my bedstead, that's all." 

" I'm sure there was no call for that: there's no bugs!" 

" Bugs! No, there's no bugs, I believe." 

" Then, what on earth do you want to take it down for?" 

" Because IMr. Sylvester wished me to do so." 

''What f or r 

" Because he wants me to sleep in his room." 

"In his room! Well, that is a fancy." 

" Yes," replied Judkins, " it certainly is a fancy." 

" A fancy I I never heard of such a thing in the whole course of my 
life. In his room! Why, what in the name of goodness does he want 
you to sleep in his room for?" 

"You'll know by-and-bye." 

"Is he afraid to sleep in a room by himself?" 

"Yes." 

" Then he's been up to no good. Depend upon it, he's been up to no 
goodJ^ 

" non't be quite so fast." 

" Fast! Wliy if it isn't that, what does he want you to sleep in his 
room for?" 

" Don't heat yourself, and I'll tell you. He is what they call a som- 
nambulist." 

"I thought so!" exclaimed cook. "As true as I stand here, I 
thought so." 

" You did ! Do you know what a somnambulist is?" 

"Do I know what it is I Why, you don't suppose I'm so ignorant as 
all that comes to, do you?" 

" Well, come now, what is a somnambulist?" 

" Wliy, a man that manies other men's wives, to be sure.'* 

" Pooh! you mean a bigamist: that's what you mean." 

" Well, it's all the same, isn't it?" 

"No, quite different. A somnambulist is a man who walks in his 
sleep." 

" Why, to be sure it is. How stupid 1 I know now. But-*-what— 
why — ^you don't mean to say that Mr. Sylvester does it," 

"lie has done it for years, and does it now; and that's tihe reason 
why I'm to sleep in his room." 

" But my goodness me though !— why— " 

" I haven't time to say nothing more about it now. Just lend Ud 



382 SYLV£ST£R SOUND 

a hand here. I want this job done; I hare to go to him directly 
it is." 

Cook did lend a hand, albeit she was at the time filled with wonder: 
she rendered him eveiy possible assistance, and indulged in the most 
startling cxclaniutions of siurprise ; while Judkins, who took no apparent 
notice of these exclamations, was silently worldly away like a slave, in 
order to get at the paper. 

In less than im hour the job was complete: and when Jiidkins Lad 
made himself tidy, he went out and flitted before the parlour window, 
that Sylve8t<'r might know that it was done. And this certainly was 
an admirable schenio as far as it went, but he had to flit about thei-e for 
some time, in consequence of Sylvester having his back towards the 
window. This, however, Judkins no sooner perceived, than he got a 
hammer and a couple of nails, and by virtue of pretending to nail up 
a branch, effocted the object proposed. 

" Well, Judkins," said Sylvester, on going to the door, " have you 
iinished yo\ir job?" 

"Yes, sir."' 

" You found plenty of room, I suppose?" 

" Oh, lots, sir. And the room looks better with two beds than one. 
It looks fuller." 

" No doubt, ril go up and have a look at it presently." 

"Beg pardon, sir,** observed Judkins; "but I think, sir, you siiid 
you'd be kind enough to lend me a paper." 

" Oh yes: Til get it for you.'' 

" Thank you, sir: thank you." 

" Now," said Sylvester, on bringing the paper out, " although you will 
find that the verdict is against me, you must not suppose that I ani 
guilty of the offence." 

" Not lor the world, sir: I shouldn't even think of such a thing." 

^' Well, this is the case," said Sylvester, pointing it out to him. 

" Thank you, sir: thjink you. I shall be in the tool-house if I should 
be wanted." 

"Very weli;^ 

Judkins then left him with his eyes eagerly fixed upon the paper ; but 
he hadn't got half a dozen yards when he stopped, and turning round, 
said — "Beg i^ardon, sir; Tm not much of a scholar; will you be so 
kind as to tell me what crim. con. means?" 

" Criminal conversation." 

" ^Vnd this here other word here, sir, versus?'^ 

" Against." 

"Thank you, sir; 1 like to understand all I read, sir; and now I 
sliall be able to get along." 

He then went to the tool-house and shut himself in, and then gave a 
look at the length of the report. It was a long one: certainly, for him, 
a very long one : for Judkins was anything but a quick reader. He, 
notwithstanding this fact, settled himself do^vn, and very soon became 
so deeply interested in the case, that he never gave the length another 
thought. 



THE SOMNAMBULIST. 333 

Having got through the speech of Mr. Phillpots, it became so dark 
that he could see to read no more. He therefore rushed round to the 
kitchen for a lantern with all the velocity at his command. 

" Where on earth have you been?" exclaimed cook, as he entered. 

" Busy, busy," said Judkins, as he lighted his candle. 

" Are you going out again?" 

" Yes, yes ; don't bother me now." 

" Well, but I want to speak to you." 

" Can't stop; can't stop a second," he replied, and rushed from the 
kitchen as hastily as he had entered. 

On his return to the tool-house, he adjusted his lantern, and then, 
with an expression of the most earnest anxiety, resumed. 

He liked Thompson's evidence. He thought it very good — very good 
— ^very good indeed : but when he came to the speech of Mr. Slashi^er, 
it threw him into an absolute state of ecstacy. 

" By Job!" he exclaimed, striking his hand upon the nail-box, "that's 
stunning — stunning! Now then, let 'em get over that if they can." 

He then proceeded ; and as he read Tom's evidence — Shaving reference 
to the parapet — ^his countenance assimied an expression of horror, and 
his breathing became thick and difficult. At length he exclaimed, with 
a start, " He's saved!" and wiped the perspiration off his brow wiUi his 
sleeve, and then stared at the candle, and sat and thought of the dreadful 
position described. 

" He's a fine fellow, though," he eventually added ; " a very fine 
fellow, that Mr. Delolme. He's a good 'un, every inch of him. Well! 
Now let's see what comes next. Very good," he continued, at intervals. 
" He couldn't get away no how so. A thousand a year — ^what an enor- 
mity of money! But he deserves every penny of it, he does; I wish he 
had ten times as much. Very good. Now, who's next? The reverend 
Edward Rouse. What, our parson! Was he in it? Oh, don't I wish 
I'd been there? His garden wall — that was five year ago when 
he lost the peaches. Jones then was right after all. The ghost: yes, 
that's quite right. No more it never is seen except when he's here. 
What do you mean by that, stupid? Ain't it as clear as the nose on 
yoiu" face?" 

This last observation referred to the cross-examination of the reve- 
rend gentleman by Mr. Phillpots, for whom Judkins had a most thorough 
contempt, and whom he held to be the most incredulous fool alive. 

"You won't believe it now, I suppose!" he continued. " Did mortal 
flesh ever set eyes on such a donkey? I thought not. I Jmew you 
wouldn't believe it. I should like to have the kicking of you, you old 
asar 

Judkins then read the reply of Mr. Phillpots; and as he did so, his 
contempt for the man turned to indignation. He struck and kicked at 
appropriate intervals, with just as much energy as he felt that he could 
have done if Phillpots had been there before him ; and thus he proceeded 
with a groaning accompaniment until he had reached the last line of 
the report, when he loudly exclaimed, " Two thousand pounds!" and let 
the paper fall. 



884 STLYK8TKU 80UN1> 

The verdict teemed to have deprived him, for a timei of all hiB moral 
and physical faculties. There he sat perfectly bewildered, and ^ere he 
continued to sit till the candle had burned to tlie aocket. This roused 
him from his reverie: he rose from his seat and folded the paper, and 
returned to the kitchen; but with his intellects still confbaed. 

" Why, what in the world have you been after?** cried oook, as he en- 
tered the kitchen witli thought on his brow. 

'< Dont talk,*" replied Judkins. ^' Don't talk. My head'a full." 

"But here'M a time you've been. I thought you never wa$ coming. 
^Vhat have you been about?" 

<* My head's full, I tell you. Don't bother^Fm stunned.** 

" Well, but what on earth is the matter. I suppose there's no occa- 
sion to keep it all to yoxurself." 

" If I could, rd give a pound out of my own blessed pocket." 

" Well, come take some beer," said cook, passing tho mug, in the fond 
expectation of melting him thus. " You don't look at all the thing. 
What will you have for supper?' 

" Two thousand pounds," muttered Judkins, indignantly. 

" What say?" 

" Nothing: I was talking to myself* 

'^ But I want you to talk to me! Wouldn't you like now something 
nice for supper?" 

"No; nothing — ^nothing: I don t want nothing." 

" Oh, but you shall have something," said cook, who went to the 
pantry, and soon returned with the remains of a couple of chickens and 
some ham. "Judkins," she added, having duly placed these delicacies 
before him, " I know you have something on your mind ; — what is it? 
You dont ought now to keep anything from me; for, although we're 
not married, wc very soon shall be, and your cares now is my cares, 
Judkins, just as much as they will be then." 

" Old girl," replied Judkins, whom this appeal softoned, and who had 
engaged to marry cook as soon as a veiy old man, who kept a public- 
house in a neighbouring village, died, " don't make yourself by no means 
oneasy about me. My cares is not on my own account; bnt on account 
of one who's been very ill used." 

"What, Mr. Sylvester?" 

"Yes." 

"Has he been ill used?" 

"Dreadful." 

" The wretches. Who ai-e they?" 

" I know who they are, and so does he." 

" Highway robbers, I suppose." 

" A million times worse than highway robbers." 

" Well, but did they hurt him much?" 

" Not in person, but in pocket. They robbed him of two thousand 
poimds." 

" Two thousand! You astonish me. Two thousand pounds! How 
oame he to bo so foolish ns to carry so much money as that about with 
hii»i?" 



THE SOBINAMBTILIST. 335 

" Carry it about with him!" 

" I always have said, and I always will say, that it's foolish of any 
man to do it. I do hope to goodness that you'll never do so." 

" You don't understand. He wasn't robbed on the road, but in a 
court of law." 

" Oh, in a court of law. That's a different thing altogether. But 
how was it? Tell me ; do tell me." 

"I can't do so to-night, old girl; but if you'll now let me have my 
thoughts to myself, I'll promise to tell you all about in the morning." 

" Well, I'm not all cm-ious — ^but I should dearly like to know. I only 
hope that while walking in his sleep, the poor young gentleman won't 
do none of us no mischief." 

" Mischief! Leave that to me. I'll take care of that. What am I 
to sleep in his room for?" 

" Well, I only hope he won't. But oome, come— eat some supper. 
I saved it for you." 

Judkins tiuned round, and although deep in thought, tried, and did 
eat a little, and just as he had finished, Mary came into the kitchen, and 
said — 

" Missus is in bed and the parson's gone, and Mr. Sylvester wants 
you, Judkins, in the parlour." 

Judkins rose on the instant, and attended the summons; and, on 
entering the pai-lour, was greeted with a smile. 

" Well, Judkins,'* said Sylvester; "ready for bed?" 

" When you please, sir : I'm quite at your service." 

" Well, then, mix yourself some brandy-and-water, and then we'll be 
off." 

"Thank you, sir; perhaps you'll be so kind as to mix a little for 
me." 

" Very well. Take a seat, Judkins." 

Judkins bowed, and closed the door, and then seated himself upon 
the edge of the chair near it. 

" Draw up to the table, man; don't sit out there!" 

Judkins did so; but didn't feel himself at all at home. 

"Now, then," said Sylvester; "just try that." 

" Thank you, sir. Your health, sir." 

" Is it as you like it?'* 

"Quite, sir: capital: particular good, sir : very." 

" Health to you, Judkins. I hope we shall both have a good night's 
rest." 

"I hope so, too," returned Judkins, who then began to feel a little 
better. " Here's the paper, sir," he added; drawing it carefully fh>m 
his breast. " I'm much obleeged to you, sir, very." 

" Have you read it?" 

"Right through, sii\ It's stunning! I know it has stunned me 
wholly! Why, that man, sir — ^that Mr. — ^Wliat's his name — Phillpots 
— must be a regelar nateral born fool ! He ought to have s«»en how it 
with half an eye !" 
He doubtless did sec how it was," 



336 9TLTE8TER 80UXD 

*' T\wn he ought to be ashamed of himself for sdckiiig out so.** 

'* These men are paid, you know, to take a certain side ; and they 
teel themselves bound — ^be it right or wrong, just or unjust — to do the 
best they can for those who employ them/' 

" Well, it mayn't become me, sir, to speak in thia way before you, but 
id rather f(et my twenty pound a-year in an honest way, than Fd get 
twenty thousana in a way like that there." 

'^ So would I; so would I; and should feel myself a happier, because 
a more honourable man. It matters not to them whom they injure: it 
matters not to them what misery they may cause. If I were a wealthy 
villain, and required their assistance in oppressing the fatherless and the 
widow, or involving any honest man in ruin, hundreds ui' them would 
jump at the job." 

*^ Then they ain*t fit to live on a civilised scale, sir; and that's my 
s<mtiments. Poor as I am, sir. Til never sell myself in that there way. 
I knowed before that some on 'em wasn't over nice. There was that 
Jerry Smith which was sent out of the country last 'sizes: they em- 
ployed one of these here counsel for him, and he knew that he was 
priiilty— Jerry told him so himself before the trial — and yet how he 
tried to knock it into the heads of the jury that he was innocent! how 
he tried to get him off, to be sure!" 

" Aye! To prey upon society again." 

" But lor, sir! What an escape you had on the top of the house 
thore: I shuddered when I read it." 

" Yo8, it was a dangerous position for a man to be in." 

" Dangerous, sir! It made my very blood run cold. But it shan't 
occur again, sir — leastways, not while you're here. I'll take care of 
tliat, sir, I'll warrant P^ 

" Well, then, finish your glass, and I'll show you how it is to be 
prevented." 

Judkins did as he was desii-ed, and wasn't long about it; and then 
followed Sylvester up to his chamber and closed the door, and waitoil 
for further instructions, while Sylvester opened and searched a trunk. 

"Now then," said Sylvester, having produced the chain with the 
handcuffs attached, " we'll turn in." And, as Judkins began to strip 
immediately, it was not long before he was safely in bed. Sylvester's 
movements were not quite so rapid ; but he didn't linger long : he got 
into bed very soon after Judkins, and then at once drew his attention 
to the chain. 

" Now," said he, " this chain, you perceive, is quite long enough to 
reach firom me to you; and that round affair at the end is for your 
wrist, while this is for mine." 

" Very good, sir," said Judkins; " but I can't get it on.'* 

"No; it must be opened first. And that is what I wish to explain. 
These things will close by mere pressure ; but they cannot be opened 
without a key. Yoiu^ is somewhat larger than mine ; but the same 
key will open them both — thus. Now try it. There ; it fits you, does 
it not?" 

" Exact, sir." 




//' / y.v //V ///// ^ //. / ^ //'^/ / '-^/'z 



/- 



THE SOMNAMBULIST. 337 

" It is not too tight for you?" 

"Oh! Not a bit." 

" Very well. Now take this key and hide it somewhere. Don't let 
me know where it is." 

« ril take care of that, sir." 

" And if I should attempt to get out of bed, all you will have to do is 
to wake me gently. And now, good night." 

" I wish you good night, sir." 

"Good night," repeated Sylvester; who put out the light, laid his 
head upon the pillow, and was very soon asleep. 

Not so, however, Judkins. He began to reflect deeply. He had 
previously thought but little of the fact of sleeping in the same chamber ; 
but then, in silence and in gloom, his apprehensions became prolific. 
Cook's expression of the hope that he might do them no mischief re- 
curred to him, and he hoped so too ; but, at the same time conceived it 
to be possible, qujte possible, that he might. " Who knows?" thought 
he. " He may get up and cut my throat! And if he should, where's 
the remedy? I wonder whether he's opstropolus. I dare say he 
is. He can't, in course, know what he's about. If he does, I don't 
think he'd hurt a hair of my head ; but if he don't, why there's no 
knowing what he may do. And yet Mr. Delolme slept with him — ^that 
appeared on the trial — ^and he never hurt him. But then he might have 
done! And yet, is it likely a gentleman like him would do me any 
mischief; and, as to cutting my throat, how is he to get the razor? 
He can't do it without pulling me out of bed, and I'm just about as 
strong as him, I fancy! But, then, how do I know he hasn't a knife in 
his pocket? He can reach that without waking me! and may do so! 
who knows? And yet I don't think he'd attempt to hurt me ! But, 
then, if he doesn't know what he's about, he doesn't! That's the 
point! At all events, I'll keep awake this blessed night if I live, to see 
what sort of games he is likely to be up to." 

And he did keep awake. He kept awake an hour; and then most 
unconsciously dropped off to sleep. He had, however, been asleep 
scarcely ten minutes, when Sylvester awoke him ; and, having done so, 
said calmly,— 

" Judkins! Give me the key." 

" The key, sir? Yes, sir," said Judkins, who had not even the most 
remote idea of his being asleep at the time. " Here it is, sir." 

" That will do," observed Sylvester; who, on the instant freed him- 
self, and then very quietly proceeded to dress. He was not, however, 
long about this : he very soon slipped on his things ; and when he had 
done so, he left the room, and— conceiving that he was then going out 
for a morning walk — ^took his hat, and deliberately quitted the house. 

Judkins heard him open the front door, and it certainly did strike him 
at the moment as being possible that Sylvester was in a state of som- 
nambulism then. And yet he asked for the key in a calm, collected 
manner, and dressed himself, and went out as if he had been awake. 
In Judkins's judgment, he mxist have been. He tried to repudiate the 
notion of his being asleep. But then what coidd he want to open the 

2 A 



888 STLYlftKB SOUHD 

front door for? That was the question; and this question no sooner 
suggested itself to Judkins than he slipped out of bed, and oommenoed 
dressing. The chain, howerer, somewhat retaidod his prqgressi for the 
key of the handcuff was not to be foimd; but he soon got over that: he 
slipped on his small clothes, his jacket, and shoes, and went down, of 
course with the chain* 

The front door was open. That was what he expected, but which 
way had Sylvester gone? He thought he*d just look round the premises 
first, and he did so, but Sylvester could not be found. He then became 
in reality alarmed, and, having just latched the door, that he might let 
himself in again, went at once into the road. But which wi^ should 
he go? It was clearly of no use his running to the right, if Dylve&ter 
had gone to the left. He heard footsteps in the distance, and on the 
instant started off in that direction, but found that they were those of a 
labouring tn»^"- 

'^ Have you met a gentleman?" cried Judkins, in haste. 

''Whoy— ees," replied the man, with provoking deliberation; ''ah 
seed un aboot hafe a moile off." 

" Which way was he going?" 

'' Whoy, ah didn*t ax, boot a seemed to be goin to Holler Bell." 

Away started Judkins on the Holworth road, as the man shouted out 
'' He's goin moortal faist;" but, albeit he ran with all possible speed, 
Sylvester could not be seen. Still Judkins kept on, panting painty, 
and, although he had, occasionally, a '' stitch " in his side, he would 
not give up until he reached the Bell at Holworth, a mile and a half 
from the Grange. Here he stopped ; and, as the house was still open, 
he went in at once, and inquired of the landlord if a gentleman had been 
there. 

"I don't know," replied the landlord; "you'll find two or three in 
the parlour : you'd better look in." 

Judkins looked in, but Sylvester was not there: still, feeling com- 
pletely exhausted, he called for a small glass of brandy and water, and 
sank upon a chair. 

Every eye was upon him, of course, and more especially the eye of 
one man, who, as soon as the brandy and water had been brought, rose 
and said, " Ah, old fellow, how are you?" 

" Pretty well," replied Judkins ; " only I've been running. But, really, 
you have the advantage of wie." 

"Not at all," cried the stranger; "come, give us your hand; you'll 
shake hands with me, wont you?" 

" Oh, I've no objection," said Judkins, who gave him his hand — the 
only hand he had disengaged, the other having been thrust into his 
pocket with the chain. 

" What!" exclaimed the stranger; "the left hand! Is that the way 
you treat an old friend?" 

" You're no old friend of mine," said Judkins, who began to feel very 
much embarrassed. 

" Oh, yes I am," returned the stranger; "come, give us your right 
hand, man.'' 






p' 




/r rjr///ry f r// /'/f'/. 



THfi lOMKAMBtTLIflT. 819 

" I shan't do nothing of the sort. I don't know you." 

" You don't ! I'll tell you who I am, if you'll give me your hand." 

" I don't want to knoAv who you are." 

" Come, give us your hand) man." 

" What do you mean? Can't I come into the house without being 
interrupted?" 

" Not into this house while I ani hel*. I'm the constable of Holler, 
and always on the look out for fellows like you." 

'' I don't care if you're the constable of ^y HoUerS) I've nothing to be 
either ashamed or afeared on." 

'*I dare say not; but it's no use you know 1 I saw it: I know I saw 
it! TFi'Z^ you let me see your right hand?" 

" No." 

"Bufclwi/Zseeitl" 

" Will you?" said Judkins, whose blood began to boil. 

"Will I? Yes!-*-now then?" he added, sei:ting the right arm of 
Judkins, who on the instant knocked him down, and would'have esr 
caped, but that the landlord, who was ooming. into the room at the 
time, stopped him. 

" What's the meaning of all this?" inquired the landlord. 

'^He^smy prisoner I" oried the constable, vising) "I'll run all nsks; 
he's my prisoner!" 

"What for?" demanded the landlord. 

" Why kx>k at his right handl Just look HJb it!" 

" What do you mean? You are always kicking up some row-^^hat 
do you mean?" 

" Only look at that man's light hftiid : that^s all?" 

" Let me look at it?" said the landlord, addressihg Judkins oldmly. 
" You shall not be ill treated li«%." 

Judkins drew his hand £rom his pockety itod with it a poirtion of the 
chain, of oonrse^ 

" There it is!" cried the constable in triumph. " TherJB you are! . I 
knew I saw it! and here's the other ruffle. Why, ytou're an escaped 
convict!— 'that's what you are." 

" I'm nothing of the sort .'" exclaimed Judkins, indignantly. 

" It's no use, you know. Not a bit of it. Don't put yourself in' a 
passion. Come along." 

" But where'-^where!" exclaimed Judkins, in a dreadful state of ex- 
citement. 

" Oh, I'll find a lodging for you. Now then. Here, Johnson! — ^here, 
Smith!— come and assist me, will you?" 

Both Johnson and Smith at once went to his assistance, and, in spite 
of the exposttdations of Judkins — ^in spite of his strong declarations of 
innocence — in spite of his struggles,^entreaties, and threats, they hurried 
him off to the cage. 



9 a2 



840 aTLYBSTEB BOUHD. 

CHAPTEB XXXVn. 

THE MT8TEBT SOLVED. 

When the ghost of Banquo appeared at the banquet, it terribly 
startled MacbeOi, but neither Macbeth nor any other individual was 
ever more startled than Mary was, when on entering the parlour alone 
the next mommg, she saw a man lying asleep on the couch. 

Of coarse she didn't stop in the room long. On the contrary, she 
very soon rushed out of it; and, although she neither screamed, nor 
feU, nor fainted, on reaching the kitchen, she felt " fit to drop.^ 

''Oh! cook,** she sighed, as she sank on a chair: ''there's a man I — 
there's a man!" 

" There's a man ! Where's a man?" demanded cook. 

" In the parlour." 

" A man in the parlour. Why, what's he after there?" 

" He's asleep — fast asleep. I know he's asleep ; but the moment I saw 
him my heart was in my mouth." 

" But what sort of a man does he look like?" 

" I don*t know. I couldn't stop to look; I only know he's a man." 

" And asleep you say? You're quite sure he's asleep?" 

"Oh! quite." 

" Then I'll go and have a look at him. Come, come along." 

"Oh! Idurs'n't." 

" Fiddlesticks. You're not afraid of a man when he's fast asleep, are 
you? Come along, do ! and don't be silly." 

Mary reluctantly rose from her chair and followed cook, soflly and 
slowly; and when cook had reached the parlour door, she peeped, and 
beheld — ^the man! 

" Why, it's only Mr. Sylvester, girl !** she exclaimed. " How stupid 
you are to be sure!" 

" Mr. Sylvester!" said Mary, whose courage returned, and she looked 
in, and then found that he was the man. 

" I wonder where Judkins is !" said cook, who had an idea that some- 
thing was wrong. " He certainly ought to have been down by this 
time. Shall we go up and knock at the door?*' 

" If you like," replied Mary, who didn't at all understand cook's feel- 
ings, and therefore couldn't appreciate them : still she went up with her, 
and found the door open, and further, that Judkins was not in the 
room. 

"Why, where on earth is he!" cried cook, who began to feel very 
much alarmed. "He's not in the garden?" she added, looking out. 
" No. Why, where in the world can he be?" 

" In the tool-house, perhaps," suggested Mary, and cook at once ran 
down and went to the tool-house: but no! — he was not there. She 



THE SOSmAMBULIST. 341 

called to him : no! Why, what could be the meaning of all this! Had 
Sylvester murdered and buried him? She really thought this extremely 
possible, and shuddered, and ran back to Mary, and told her to go to 
her mistress immediately, and let her know that Sylvester was in the 
parlour, while Judkins coidd no where be foimd. 

Mary accordingly went, and told her mistress, who feeling quite 
certain that all was not right, slipped on her morning gown hastily, and 
with great trepidation descended. 

Sylvester was still on the couch, and she approached him, and sat by 
his side, and found that he was in a deep sleep. 

"Sylvester, my lovel" she cried. " Sylvester!— /S'yiftester/— My 
dearr 

Sylvester opened his eyes, and started. " Whj^^ he exclaimed, look- 
ing round, " how is this? In the parlour!" 

" How long," said Aunt Eleanor, affectionately: " how long have you 
been sleeping here?" 

• "Oh! aimt, Tm sorry — ^very sorry for this. It's galling in the ex- 
treme.*' He added, angrily, "Ju&ins ought to have kaown better. 
It's monstrous, that a man like that is not to be trusted." 

" Do not vex yourself, my love," said Aimt Eleanor, " pray do not 
vex yourself. Let us thank God that you are safe. Where is Judkins?" 

" I know not, aimt: nor do I know how I came here. I know only 
this, that we went up to bed about ten ; that I was well secured to him, 
and that here I am now." 

" But is it not strange? He is no where to be found." 

" It '11 be no great loss if he never he found. I might have gone and 
broken my neck ; what did he care? I thought him a different man." 

" Nay, my dear, do not thus censure him yet. First ascertain the 
cause of his letting you free. I have always foimd him faithful and 
obedient." 

" Why, I thought that I might have trusted my life in his hands ; and 
yet, although I enjoined him not to suffer me to leave the room, here I 
am, while he is gone no one knows whejre, and no one cares." 

" I hope, sir," observed cook, with tears in her eyes, " that you haven't 
been doing notiiing with him : I hope^ sir, you haven't been doing him 
no mischief !" 

" Mischief!" cried Sylvester. " What do you mean?" 

" No, cook: certainly not," said Aimt Eleanor. " He will, I have no 
doubt, return by-and-bye, and when he does return, I shall expect him 
to give a good account of his conduct. Now go and get the breakfast 
ready. Mary, come with me. Do not be angry, my dear," she added, 
addressing Sylvester, and kissing him with the deepest affection. " Let 
us thank heaven that nothing dreadful has occurred." 

She then went up to dress, and so did Sylvester, who found the key 
on the bed, but, of course, not the chain: and while he was indignantly 
shaving himself, cook was utterly lost in conjecture. What a number 
of dreadful deaths she conceived that Judkins mightha^VQ died while shei 
was getting the breakfast ready! What stabbing, drowning, poisonings 
strai^ation, and burying alive, rose before her vivid imagination 



M2 nvfMtmoL iomiD 

then! She was wildl—quite wildl She put the c^gt upon the gridiron 
imtead of the ham, and the ham in the aaiioepan instead of the eggs, 
and feh strongly that the landlady of the " Cook and Constitution"-^ 
the house which Judkins had been afler-i-ehe never should be. This 
thought alone was maddening; but when in addition to this she reflected 
upon the assumed dreadful fact, of a man like Judkins being thus cut 
off in his very prime, without having left anything like a wUl: it was 
too much : she couldn't endure it ; and as she found she couldn't, she 
kt the ham and egga go on just as they pleased, sank into a ohair, and 
wept. 

And thus she remained until Mary came down, when she moat un- 
reservedly opened her heart. And Mary sympathised with her, and 
boiled her eggs for her, and cooked two sUoea of ham, and beigged of 
her earnestly not to " take on** so, and then took the break&st in. 

<' Has Judkina returned yet?'* inquired Aunt Eleanor. 

" No, ma'am : he's not come back yet.'* 

*' Dear moi iVs very strange; I oannot at all aocoont for it. Have 
you no idea where he is?** 

<* Not the leasest in life, ma'am, I*m sure.** 

^' Well ! we must of course have patience; but at present his con- 
duct appears to be extraordinary. That will do, Mary; 111 ring when 
I want you." 

Mary withdrew, and returned to eook, whose afl^otion was most 
intense : she sighed and sobbed vehemently, and would not be oonsoled. 
Her Judkins — oh! her Judkins^-^lived, she feared, in her memory only. 
His absence — his deeply mysterious absence— -tugged at her heart- 
strings, and withered her hopes. Oh ! that she knew where he was to 
be found! — she would have him — dead or alive she would have him! 
In vain did Mary appeal to her philosophy: in vain she preached pa- 
tience, and talked about hope: cook suspected strongly that Judkins 
had been murdered, and felt at length that she knew it. 

" Oh ! what is this life?" she in agony exclaimed—" what is this life 
but a tub full of eels ! The moment you think you have got the one 
you want, it slips through your fingers, and there you are!" 

She got the cards, and Mary shuf&ed them, and gave them to cook 
to cut. The first she cut was the nine of spades: "Trouble, trouble^ 
trouble !" she cried, and proceeded to cut again. The next she cut 
was the (tc.^ of spades. " Death I" she exclaimed, and sankbadk in her 
chair. 

The bell rang. Mary was summoned to the gate. The rewrend 
gentleman was there. He seemed excited-*dreadftilly exdted— «nd 
Mary had no sooner let him in, than she ran to tell cook that he 
was so. 

Sylvester met him at the door, and the moment the reverend gentle- 
man siaw him, he grasped his hand, and with fervour, exclaimed— 

"I am happy to see you— most happy. I feared," he added, as he 
entered the room, " that some new calamity had befall^x us, ftxr Jud* 
kina^" 

"Have jQu ^^xk lu»?" 



THE SOBiMAMBULIST. 341 

"He is now at my house, in the custody of a constablei with irons, 
not only on his hands but on his legs." 

" Is it possible!" exclaimed Aunt Eleanor: "why what in the world 
has he been doing?" 

" The constable will have it that he's an escaped convict." 

" A whatl" cried Sylvester, bursting into a loud roar of laughter, in 
which Aunt Eleanor could not help joining. 

" He will have it," repeated the reverend gentleman, gravely, " that 
he's an escaped convict; but I don't at present know the particulars, 
because the moment I ascertained that he had missed you in the night, 
I ran over to see if you were safe." 

"Missed me, indeed!" exclaimed Sylvester, "Fve no patience with 
the man!" 

" But he may not be in fault after all, my dear," suggested Aimt 
Eleanor: " you had better go and see." 

"Aye, come with me; come," said the reverend gentleman, "let's go 
and hear the particulars at once." 

" I may not accompany you — may I?" inquired Aunt Eleanor. 

" Yes," replied the reverend gentleman: " do, by all means." 

Aunt Eleanor ran for her bonnet and shawl, and they left the cottage 
together. 

On reaching the parsonage-house — ^at the door of which stood the 
chaise-cart in which the " escaped convict" had been brought — they 
proceeded to the library, and there found Judkins feeling much degraded 
and looking very ill. 

" Well, Judkins," said Sylvester, sternly, " what have you been doing?" 

" I an't been doing o' nothing, sir, but running after you." 

" You ought not to have allowed me to leave you at all, sir." 

" I can explain all that, sir — ^I know I can ; if you will but satisfy 
tills here person that Tm not what he takes me for." 

"Why have you this man in custody?'* demanded Sylvester of the 
constable. 

" Why, sir, it's as this," replied the constable ; " last night, when I 
was at Holler Bell, the prisoner came running into the house to ask if 
some gentleman had been there, and when he came into the room where 
I was, to look round, I saw that he had a handcuff on, and therefore, as 
he was a stranger to the place, I felt it my duty, as a constable, to take 
him into custody." 

" What time was that?" 

" About half-past eleven." 

" Could you not have returned with him at once, or sent to inquire 
about him?" 

" That's what I wanted him to do," exclaimed Judkins. 

"And that's what I dare say I should have done — although not boimd 
to do so — ^if you hadn't been so violent. In the first place, he tried to 
conceal the handcuff — ^that looked suspicious: in the second place, when 
I asked him to shake hands with me he wouldn't: in the third place^ 
when I tried to raise his arm, he knocked me down: and in the ^urtb 
place, it required three powerful men to carry him off to the cage." 



344 STLYBfltBB 80Uin> 

"Why were you 8o violent, JadkuKS?** said Sylvester. "Why did 
you not at once explain who you were?" 

" I didn't suppose it to be necessary at first, and when I would have 
done 80 they wouldn't let me." 

"There was, I dare say, unnecessary violence on both sides; but 
when you found that appearances were againstjjrou, you ought to have 
been calm.'' 

" I couldn't, sir, afler he'd called me a convict" 

" He certainly was justified in supposing that you had escaped £rom 
custody." 

" To be sure I was, sir," exclaimed the constable; "and, as such, it 
was my bounden duty to take him." 

"I don't dispute that; but I think that you might have come with him 
to the Grange, instead of thrusting him into a place of ocmfinement He 
is our servant : and I have an affliction which renders it necessary for 
him to sleep in mv room. I am, unfortunately, in the habit of waging 
in my sleep, and m order to prevent this, I am secured to him by these 
manacles. Last night, it appears, I, by some means, managed to get 
away from him, and when he missed me — ^ 

" I heard that you'd gone on to Holler," said Judkins. 

"He heard that I had gone on towards Holworth — ran afler me 
— ^rushed into the Bell to ascertain if I was there— and there you saw 
him. I presxime that you are now quite satisfied." 

" Can you unlock them there handcufiGs, sir?" 

" Yes," replied Sylvester: " here is the key. You will find that that 
will unlock them both." 

" Well," said the constable, having foimd this to be correct, " as I've 
had him in custody, I ought, sir, by good rights, to take him before a 
magistrate." 

" There cannot, surely, be the slightest necessity for that." 

" I don't know, sir, whether I am justified in letting him go 
Avithout." 

" Nonsense," said the reverend gentleman, " nonsense: FU be respon- 
sible for him, and that's sufficient." 

" Well, sir, so long as Fm held harmless, sir, that's all I want. Fm 
satisfied myself." 

" Very well then," said Sylvester, " take those things off*." 

The constable did so at *once, and when Sylvester had privately 
placed in his hand a sovereign, he bowed and left the house. 

" Now Judkins," said Sylvester, " how came you to let me leave the 
room last night?" 

" I'll tell, sir: I'll tell you exact how it was. I hid the key up as you 
told me. Well, a little after eleven you woke me up, and said to me, 
* Judkins, just give me the key.* You spoke just as you speak now, and I 
thought, in coiu-se, that you was awake. I didn't dream of your being 
asleep. Well, sir, you got up and dressed yourself, and went out of the 
room, and it wasn't until I heard you open the front door, that the idea 
struck me. I then became alarmed, and got up and whipped on my 
^ings, and went out, and as I heard, when I got in the road, that yoUj 



THE SOSINAMBnUST. 345 

or some gentleman, had gone on to Holler, I ran fit to split myself right 
to Holler Bell, and there, in course, the constable saw me." 

" I see how it is now exactly. You fancied, of course, that I was 
awake." 

" I did indeed, sir. Oh, if I hadn't, I wouldn't have suffered you to 
have left the room for the world." 

^^ Another time, Judkins, let me on no account have the key: give it 
to me under no pretence, whatever." 

ril take care of that, sir. Fve had a lesson. You won't catch me 
doing it again, sir, Til warrant^ 

^^ I hope not. Now run home and get some refreshment. What sort 
of a place were you in?" 

" Oh, horrid, sir. Worse than a pigsty, and so cold — oh /" 

" Then you didn't sleep much?" 

" Never got a wink, sir, all the blessed night." 

" Then if you feel disposed to go to bed, do so. There, run away, 
and make yourself as comfortable as you can." 

" Stop," said the reverend gentleman. " Drink that. It's brandy." 

Judkins knew it. He didn't require to be told. He took the glass 
and emptied it, and then ran home to comfort cook. 

The reverend gentleman now began to descant at full letigth on the 
conduct of the constable, and while he was thus occupied, a servant 
entered, and presented him with a card. He looked at it; and after a 
pause, slightly started. "Mr. Greorge Augustus Howard!" thought he; 
" why that is the name of the gentleman whom Sylvester's father was 
supposed to have injured; — surely this is the same man!" 

" Have you shown this gentleman into the parlour?" he inquired. 

" No, sir," replied the servant; "he is in his carriage at the door." 

" Ask him to walk in; I'll be with him immediately. You will ex- 
cuse me for a short time," he added, addressing Aunt Eleanor. 

" Oh, Sylvester and I will return now. We will only take a walk 
round the garden." 

" Well," said the reverend gentleman, who felt somewhat tremidous, 
" I ea!pect that I shall have, in the course of an hour, something of im- 
portance to communicate." 

" Indeed! Well, we shall be happy to see you. Do not let us detain 
you now." 

Sylvester and his aimt then went into the garden, and when the reve- 
rend gentleman had nerved himself suflSicientiy, he joined Mr. Howard 
in the parlour. 

" Mr. Rouse, I believe I have the honour to address," observed Mr* 
Howard, calmly. 

" My name is Rouse," returned the reverend gentleman. " I beg that 
you will be seated." 

" Sir," said Mr. Howard, " I ought to apologise for introducing my- 
self thus ; but I think that, when I have explained to you my object, 
you will pardon me. I saw in a paper, last evening, the report of a trials 
in which you were in some degree interested*" 

" Julian versus Sound?" 



346 STLTMnm sodmd 

" The same." 

<* I was indeed, and am still interested deeply.^^ 

<' And so am I— ^ deeply, that every hope I hare of happiness in 
this life depends upon my conviction of the truth of that plea upon which 
the defence rested. You know Mr. Sound, of course?" 

'* Intimately. He was here just this moment. There he is with his 
aunty now leaving the garden gate." 

*' Indeed!'* exclaimed Mr. Howard, looking round eagerly: ^' I should 
much like to know and ocmverse wi^ him.*' 

"ShaUIcallhimbackr 

'< I ihank you— I thank you: not now— -not now. Did yoa know 
his father?" 

" No; I never did. I saw him once, I believe; but only osice." 

^* Do you know what his christian name was?** 

*^ Let me see ; Dr. Sound— i)r.—^ar me— Horatio! yes, that was it; 
I recollect now, it was Horatio." 

<' I was right in my conjecture then: that was the man. And now 
ril explain to you why I came here. Ton stated, I believe, in your 
evidence on the trial, that you had not the slightest doubt of the ^Eict of 
Mr. Sound being a sonmambulist." 

*' I did so. Nor had I the slightest doubt on the subject: nor have I 
now. Nay, I had an additicmal proof of the fact this very morning!" 

'' Can it, think you, be proved, sir, to my satis&ction?" 

'* Most certainly ! FU undertake to prove it to the satisfaction of any 
man alive." 

I ^" I will tell you why I am anxious to be satisfied. Some years since, 
tHs young man's father and I were bosom friends. We had known 
each other for many years, and fancied that we knew each other's 
hearts. We visited each other constantly, and continued thus to visit, 
imtil one fatal night, when he was absolutely found in my wife's 
chamber, sitting by the side of her bed!" 

" Exactly — ^yes — well?" cried the reverend gentleman. 

" WeD, he being not only a friend, but the medical adviser of my 
wife, I, on hearing of the circumstance, thought but little of it; con- 
ceiving that, of course, he had been to attend her professionally ; but 
when my wife denied strongly all knowledge of the circimistance, my 
suspicions were aroused; and these suspicions were confirmed by Soxmd 
hinaself in the morning, for he declared, most solemnly declared, that on 
that particular night he never entered the house at all! This I thought 
conclusive. Had not the fact been denied, the thing would have passed 
off, of course ; but, being thus induced to believe that they had con- 
spired to deceive me, I felt most abundantly convinced of her guilt. I 
did not, however, proceed, as Sir Charles Julian has proceeded. I had 
too much regard for my own feelings, and the feelings of those aroimd 
me. I — as I then conceived, ^'?^5</y— cast her off with a suflicient allow- 
ance to secure to her all personal comforts; and there, sir— there was 
an end." 

" Poor lady I And did she live long after that?'* 

" She is living— still." 



THIS SOUHAMBITLtST. 347 

'' And does she still declare her innocence?'* 

" She does, most solemnly." 

'< Then, be sure that she is innocent. Oh! be sure of it." 

" I would to God that I could be sure." 

" You have seen her since?" 

" But once : but once : and that was recently. My daughter sees her 
twice a-year. That request I could not deny her. They meet here, in 
this very village." 

"Why!" exclaimed the reverend gentleman, "I have seen two 
carriages at the door of the inn frequently, and always on particular 
days; and now I come to look at it, yours is one of them! Bless my 
life and soul, how extraordinary that is! How often have I wondered 
why they met there!" 

" They have met for that purpose; but my daughter, until a short 
time since, never knew that she had a mother living." 

"I now," said the reverend gentleman, "understand and appre- 
ciate your anxiety to be satisfied on this important point; and that 
satisfaction, be assured, as far as Sylvester is concerned, I will give 
you." 

*' If I can be satisfied with reference to hm^ I shall be satisfied com- 
pletely : for his ^ther just before his death wrote to me, and stated that 
if he were there the night in question, he was there in a state of som- 
nambulism; the idea of which I then utterly rejected, but feel disposed 
to entertain it now. If, therefore, I can be satisfied with reference to 
the son, I shall be satisfied with reference to the father. It is true I 
never heard of somnambulism being hereditary; but that will sufii- 
oiently satisfy me." 

" Then that satisfaction you shall have. I pledge myself to satisfy 
you. I imdertake to bring before you proofs which you yourself shall 
hold to be irrefragable. I am now preparing a statement of facts to be 
laid before Sir Charles-«»who, although he has a verdict, is not at all 
convinced of its justice*-and a copy of that statement you shall have. 
I will bring before you witnesses here, to prove all that has occurred in 
this place; and Til take you up to town and introduce you to Dr. 
Delohue and his son, whose evidence I am certain you will hold to be 
conclusive." 

" Is the Mr. Delolme who i^peared on the tiial^ the son of Dr. 
Delome?" 

«Yes.« 

"I knew him well. He was one of the most intimate friends of Dr. 
Sound.'* 

"He was so." • 

"Oh! I knew him perfectly well; but I have not seen him for many^ 
many years. Since tiiat unhappy affair, I have kept myself entirely 
aloof from the world." 

" Then let us go to London together and see him, and Thomas, his 
son." 

"I would go, sir, to the end of the world, to be satisfied." 

>«Thiitiesuffident» Tou thall firtt have this etatementi^^e trudi 



MS 8TLVSATBR 80UIID: 

of every word of which I undertake to prore— and then we*ll go up to 
town together.** 

*' I need not ezplam to you how highly I appredate yoor kindness; 
but believe me—" 

'' Not a word on that subject! I am more deeply interested in the 
vindication of Dr. Sound's oharacter, than you imagine. Where can I 
communicate with you? Do you live a very great distance fiom this 
place." 
*' Scarcely four miles o£f! Borton Hall is my residence." . 
«Borton Hall! How very strange that I should never have heard of 
your living there!" 
^' I havci as I before observedi kept myself completely secluded." 
'' Well; that acconnts for it, of course. But yours must have been a 
weanrlifo." 

'< It has been, indeed. But, then, what pleasure could society impart 
to me? It could but inflict additional pain. I have not, my dear sir, 
for years and years, spoken so £ceely to any man as I have now spoken 
to you; but I feel as if you had lifted a weight from my heart, and as I 
now b^in to doubt, I now b^in to hope. I feel already a different 
man; aod hence you may be sore that my mind is prepared for con- 
viction. Nay," he added, as tears chased each other down his cheeks, 
'' so much lighter do I foel, that I am about to solicit you company to- 
day. Come and dine with me? It is a long, long time since I enter- 
tamed a fiiend; but say that you will come?" 
"My dear sir, I will" 
" Gould you bring Mr. Sound with you?" 

" Certainly! I will do so. Nay, I shall be most happy to do so. 
He need not know your object exactly. It would not be wise, perhaps, 
to tell that to him yet. You are a friend of mine: that will be suffi- 
cient. The subject of Somnambulism can be easily introduced, and you 
will then hear his views on that subject explained." 

" My dear friend, I feel extremely grateful to you: you know not how 
grateful I feel! However, I may, of course, expect you at four?" 
" I will most assuredly be there." 

Mr.Howard took his hand and pressed it warmly, and, having received 
such additional assurances as coi^d not fail to strengthen his hopes, re- 
turned to his carriage, and gave the word " home." 

The reverend gentleman was now in a state of rapture. AU, in his 
judgment, was perfectly clear. He had but to prove this to Howard's 
satisfaction — which he felt, of course, sure that he could do — and poor 
Mrs. Howard would be restored to her husband, who would, of course, in 
consequence, be once more happy— his own dear Eleanor would be de- 
lighted with the £ict of her brother's character being vindicated-— Syl- 
vester's innocence would be proved to the world, and Lady Julian would 
return to Sir Charles, who would be in a state of felicity again. If there 
be apure pleasure on earth, it is assuredly that of imparting pleasure to 
others, and the reverend gentleman— who imagined diat he saw all this 
with the most perfect distinctness— experienced this pleasure in an emi- 
nent dsgree. Of what an immense amount of happiness did he then 



THE SOMNAMBULIST. 349 

possess the germs. In his view, no man was ever placed in a more for- 
tunate position. But he would not keep the knowledge of his position 
to himself. No ; he^d go and begin to spread this happiness without 
delay. His Eleanor should be informed of all that had transpired; and, 
as she was the first to be made happy, he went to the cottage at once. 

" Sylvester," said he, as he entered, " I am going to dine with a friend 
to day at four: will you go with me?** 

" I shall be most happy to do so." 

" We shall be by ourselves: everything quite quiet! I offer no apo- 
logy at present to you," he added, turning to Aunt Eleanor, " for thus 
depiiving you of his society. But, come, let us take a little turn in the 
garden." 

Aunt Eleanor, who inferred from this that he wished to say something 
to her in private, smiled, and left her work, and went into the garden 
with him. 

" Now," said he; "I told you that I thought — and it did at the time 
strike me — ^that I should have, in the course of the morning, something 
important to commimicate." 

** And have you?" 

" I have, my dear Eleanor: I have." 

He then led her into the arbour, and there, to her utter amazement, 
told her all that had occurred. At first, on hearing him mention the 
name of Howard, she nearly fainted; but, recovering her self-possession, 
she subsequently listened with almost breathless anxiety. He remem- 
bered nearly every word that had passed, and every word that he re- 
membered he commimicated to her, embellished only with a description 
of the feelings inspired. 

" And now," said he, at the conclusion of this intelligence ; " ought we 
not to be most thankftd? Out of evil cometh good. The very thing 
which we held to be a great calamity, may prove to be a blessing indeed. 
Thus we, in our blindness, complain: events occur, of the tendency of 
which we have no knowledge, no conception; and, because we are too 
short-sighted to see their tendency, we presumptuously pronounce them 
to be evils, and, instead of being gratefiil, complain. How wonderfully 
is everything ordered! And what poor, weak, dependent, helpless crea- 
tures we are! We are but instruments in the hands of Him who em- 
ploys us to work out His great design. But, come, dear Eleanor, why 
so sad?" 

"I am not sad," she replied; "believe me. You have said that we 
ought to be thankful: I am, indeed, thankful: most thankful. But — 
should Mr. Howard, afler all, not be satisfied — ^" 

" That, my dear Eleanor, I hold to be impossible. Why, Sylvester, I 
have not the slightest doubt, will this very day satisfy him." 

" But did I not understand you that Sylvester was to have no know- 
ledge of his object?" 

"Exactly! But, when I have introduced the subject, Sylvester will 
join in the conversation, of course." 

" I perceive. Well, I hope to heaven that you may be successftd !" 

" Be sure that we shall be. I feel certain of it. I never felt more 



850 nLTUTlB lOUlTD 

oertain of aaything yet. And now let us go in agldn. SylvMter may 
rafpect that there is something which we are anxious to oonoeal ftom 
him, and I wish him to go there firee from all suspicion." 

They then returned to the parlour, in whioh Sylvester was reading, 
and, as they entered, the reverend gentleman said, '' Well, my dear boy^ 
now what time will you be ready?'* 

<' Ob, at what time you please!'* replied Sylvester. " How far have 
we to go?" 

<' About fotu* miles ; it can't be more than that." 

'' Then I suppose we ought to start about half-^past three? Shall 
I drive you over in our machine, or will you go in yours?" 

" Oh, we may as well go in mine." 

'' Very well. Then, in the meantime, aunt, you and I will go fo a 
drive somewhere : shall we?" 

" I should like it, my dear, much." 

The reverend gentleman then left the cottage, and Sylvester went to 
look after the chaise, while Aimt Eleanor-**4o whom Borton Hall had 
become an object of the most intense interest^-*deoided on getting Syl* 
vester to drive round Borton, in order that she might just look at the 
Hall. 

Accordingly, on getting into the chaise, she intimated to bim the road 
she wished to go— -of course without explaining her otjeot->*«nd they 
went that road and passed the Hall, of which she cotdd get but the 
slightest glimpse, so perfectly was it surrounded by trees. 

'' How should you like to live there?* inquired Sylvester, peroeiviog 
the eyes of his aunt fixed upon it. 

" I think not at all, my love ; — should you?" 

" I might if I wished to be buried a5ive. What place is that?" he 
inquired of a man who was passing at the time." 

" Borton Hall, sir," replied the man. 

"Who lives there!" 

" Don't know, sir. Nobody knows. Nobody never did know." 

" Nobody, I suppose then particularly wants to know. Of course it's 
inhabited?" 

"Sir?" 

" Some one lives there, of course." 

"Oh, yes, sir, two or three lives there, if they call that livin'. 
They're rollin* in riches, too, if that's any good to 'em." 

" Is the master of the house then a miser?" 

"A miser, sir! no, sir: he's one of the most liberalest men as is— 
only he won't let nobody know him. He don't care what he gives away 
nor what he pays for what he has." 

" Is he never to be seen?" 

" Oh, yes, sir — sometimes. Fve seen him often, and he looks, for all 
the world, sir, as if he'd been committing a million o' murders." 

" Well, he's an extraordinary fellow, certainly," said Sylvester, who 
threw the man sixpence and then drove on. 

That this colloquy, short as it was, deeply interested Aunt Eleanor, 
is » fact which may well be conceived. Sh^ knew the cmile of Howard's 



I 



THB S01C!rA]CBm.IST. 351 

seclusion and dejection; but as Sylvester did Tiot, he thought no more 
about the matter. 

'^ Theresa a lovely girl!*' he exclaimed, as a carriage passed them 
about half a mile from the Hall. <' Bid you see her?" 

'^ I took no particular notice, my dear, I was looking at the carriage." 

'^ Oh, you should have seen her->«-one of the most beautiftil creatures 
I ever beheld!" 

" Young, my dear— very young?" 

" She seemed to be very young. An older person— her mother, I 
imagine — ^was in the carriage with her." 

This at once banished the thought she had conceived of its being 
Howard's daughter. She had no mother to ride by her side: of every 
comfort— of every joy which a mother could impart she had been 
most imhappily deprived. 

"I wonder," said Sylvester, "whom she can be. Do you know the 
carriage?" 

" I thought as it passed that Fd seen it before. But it cannot be 
the one I imagined. 

" I should much like to know who she is." 

" Why, my love — ^why ?" 

" Oh, I don't know. Perhaps because she is the most charming girl 
I ever saw." 

The subject then dropped, and as Sylvester's thoughts were fixed 
on her, while those of his aunt were engaged with Howard, they re- 
turned, almost in silence, to the Grange. 

At ten minutes past three precisely— 4he usual twenty minutes 
before the appointed time — ^the reverend gentleman drove up to the 
gate; and, having alighted, felt anxious to be off; but Sylvester, 
knowing this propensity of Ids, had him in and expostulated with him, 
and pointed out to him the monstrous absurdity of supposing that his 
horse couldn't do more than four miles an hour. 

" Did you ever see a carriage," he inquired at length ; " an olive 
carriage, picked out with white?" 

"I have seen such a carriage," replied the reverend gentleman, 
colouring up on the instant; " I certainly have seen such a carriage!" 

" And so have I ! and of all the lovely creatures I ever beheld, she, who 
was in that carriage this morning, was incomparably the moat lov^y!" 

" What!" exclaimed the reverend gentleman, who didn't on this point 
wish to be urged. " What!" he reiterated, pointing to a portrait for 
which Aunt Eleanor had sat twenty years before. " Have you ever 
seen that portrait?" 

" Of course I have; and see it now." 

" Did you ever see the original .^" 

Aunt Eleanor smiled, and playfrilly patted the cheek of the reverend 
gentleman and blushed, and said that she thought it was much too 
bad. 

" Well, but do you know to whom that carriage belongs?" inquired 
Sylvester. 

^ Was this yotti^ ladjr alo»e?" 



352 fXLTBSXXB 80UND 

^^No; hfir mother was with her." 

'' Then I don*t know at all. But come; let^s be off. We shall keep 
them waiting; I know we shall!** 

" Oh ! we have plenty of time. Shall / drive?" 

^' If you please! Yes, do." 

'' Very welL Is there any exhibition about ten miles off?" 

" Not that Fm aware of! Why?" 

'' If there had been, we might as well have seen that first!" 

''But really we have no time to spare! we haven't indeed." 

"WeU! then we'll be off." 

They then took leave of Aunt Eleanor — ^who made them promise to 
be home by ten— and while she prayed for their success, they started. 

On reaching the avenue which led to the Hall, Sylvester suddenly 
stopped, and exclaimed — 

''Why! we passed this wilderness this morning! Are you going in 
here?" 

"Oh yes! Goon!" 

" Are you sure that you can find your way out again?" 

" I have not the smallest fear of that." 

"Oh! Well, then we'll explore! Are we going to dine with the 
proprietor of this den?" 

'* We shall dine with the gentleman who lives at the Hall !" 

" He's a natural curiosity, is he not?" 

" A natural curiosity!" 

" Yes ; the man of whom I inquired this morning in the road said 
that ?ie didn't know him, that nobody knew him, and that he never was 
known!" 

" He certainly leads a life of seclusion, but you will find him a most 
perfect gentleman, notwithstanding." 

They now reached the circular lawn before the house, and as they 
drove round two servants appeared at the door, and immediately after- 
wards Howard came forth, and proceeded to welcome them warmly. 

This ceremony ended, he led them into a spacious and most elegantly 
furnished room, and at once introduced them to Henriette. 

Sylvester recognised her in an instant. It was the sweet girl whom 
he had that morning seen. And there was the lady whom he had 
conceived to be her mother, but who was introduced to him as Miss 
Duprez. 

Having been presented, Henriette retired to one of the windows — 
gracefully, but with a timidity which proved that she had not been 
much accustomed to society — and, while Howard was conversing with 
the reverend gentleman, and glancing at Sylvester — ^who was an object 
of peculiar interest to him — Sylvester and Henriette were glancing at 
each other, for he was equally, although with far different feelings, an 
object of interest to her. And thus they were engaged until dinner was 
annoimced, when Howard gave Henriette to the reverend gentleman, 
and — as Miss Duprez had left the room — ^took Sylvester's arm himself. 

Miss Duprez, however, joined them in the dining-room, and they sat 
down to a most delicious dinner — a dinner which the reverend gentle- 



ii 



THE SOMNAMBULIST. 353 

man highly enjoyed— but of which neither Sylvester nor Henriette — 
who was exceedingly tremulous the whole of the time — ^partook freely. 

It will not appear amazing that Henriette — who had never before 
dined with strangers — should feel, on this occasion, nervous; but it is 
very questionable whether she would have felt half so nervous, had 
there been but one guest, and that guest had been the reverend gentle- 
man. It will be extremely rational to believe that she would not: for 
her eyes and those of Sylvester constantly met — so constantly, indeed, 
that it really appeared as if they had not the power to keep them off. 

Very soon after dinner the ladies withdrew, and then Sylvester felt 
more at ease, and, as Howard — ^who was highly pleased with him — pai(? 
him every attention, he joined in the conversation freely and gaily, imtil 
the subject of somnambulism was introduced, when he became at once 
thoughtful and silent. 

Conceiving, however, that, being a friend of the reverend gentleman, 
Howard knew, of course, all about the recent trial, he eventually shook 
off all unpleasant thoughts, and, on being appealed to, entered into the 
subject fully. He related all those circumstances connected with the 
case which did not transpire on the trial — ^liow Sir Charles had attxicked 
him ; how the duel was prevented ; how the pier-glass was broken, and 
so on — and then described the scenes which he unconsciously produced 
while residing with Dr. Delolme. 

This description not only amazed Howard, but amused him ; and, as 
the reverend gentleman after this related, with his characteristic gravity, 
all that had occurred at the Grange— commencing with the peaches, 
and ending with the fact of poor Judkins being caged as an escaped 
convict — ^he appeared for a time to have forgotten all his cares. 

"But," said he at length, addressing Sylvester; "you seem to have 
passed over five years! What occurred while you were living with Mr. 
Scholefield?" 

" Nothing that ever came to my knowledge; and that I have oft«n 
thought of as being most strange." 

" It is strange, certainly. Now, had you any supper last night?" 

"Oh, yes; I always take supper: it is, in fact, the meal I most en- 

joy." 

" What are the habits of Mr. Scliolefield? Is he a free liver?" 

" Quite the reverse. He is a particularly abstemious man." 

"And were you abstemious while you were living with him?" 

" I was : I lived very nearly as he lived." 

" And never ate suppers?" 

"Why!" exclaimed Sylvester, as the thought on the instant struck 
him; " how strange that that never occurred to me! That must have 
.been the cause!" 

" A friend once wrote to me," said Howard, with emotion, and the 
reverend gentleman knew whom he meant; " stating that he Jiad been a 
somnambulist, and that abstemious living had, in his case, effected a 
cure!" 

" And will do so in my case, I have not the slightest doubt of it!" 

" I shduld strongly recommend you to try it»" 

2 c 



854 STLYISTEB SOUND 

" Try it, tir! What would I not do to cure myself of this awfully 
perilous practice? Nothing of the kind ever occurred, to my knowledge, 
while I lived with Mr. ScUolefield: I am, therefore, bound to believe 
that nothing ever did occur, and that, as I lived, while 4here, abste^ 
mionsly, the fact is ascribable solely to that. I Uiank you for Uie sug- 
gestion. I feel grateful to you beyond all expression. I shall adopt it, 
most assuredly, at once.** 

" And I hope, most sincerely," added Howard, " that it will prove to 
be in your case efiectual." 

They then rejoined the ladies, and had coffee; and Sylvester chatted 
with Henriette-*whom he found to be a highly intellectual, as well as a 
most lovely, girl-*-while the reverend gentleman and Howard were con- 
versing most earnestly in private. The result of this conversation was, 
that they resolved on posting to town on the morrow, and, soon after 
this resolution had been fixed, the guests took leave of Howaid and 
Henriette, and left the Hall— the reverend gentleman with aiwh news 
for Eleanor, a^d Sylvester with feeliugs of gratitude and lovej 



CHAPTER XXXVra. 

TSB BECOKCILUTION. 



In the morning, about half-past five o^clock, Sylvester — ^who not only i 

went to bed the previous night supperless, but, in order to coimteract ' 

the effeets of the wine, had taken a cooling draught — awoke ; and, feel- *' 

ing anxious to get up, for his stomach, being empty, was very rebellious, 
he at length pulled the chain, and awoke his protector. 

Judkins, in an instant, sat upright in bed, and looked at him very 
mysteriously, and then shook his head with peculiar significance, and ' 

then said, "No: it won*t do; not a bit of it: nothing at all of the sort: \ 

I won't have it. You want to cut away again, don't you?" 

" I want to get up," replied Sylvester. 

" Then I'd rayther you'd remain where you are, for I don't want to 
get into any more cages.'* m 

** I am not now asleep !'* !j 

" No, I dessay you're not : no doubt you're wide awake in a state of ij 

somnambulisationP 

*< No, indeed I am not: look at me?" 

*< That's of no use! I can't tell by looking. What do you want to 'i 

get up for, here, a little arter five?" 

"In the first place, I feel very hungry; and in the next, as I can't 
rfeep; I may as well get up as not." l 



THE SOlINiJtfBULIST, 355 

<* But don't you recollect you told me not to let you get up before the 
usual time, on no account whatsomdever? Now, this here's a very on- 
rational time, you know, for you to get up, so ypu'd better lay down ag'in, 
and m£^ke your life happy." 

<* Nonsense !" cried Sylvester, who couldn't avoid laughing; "I tell 
you distinctly that I*m now quite awake! Where's the key?" 

<* Well, but are you ^wj^ke now? Upon your soul, are you awake?" 

<aara." 

" Well, I don't know ; you know, sir, whether you are or not: I'll defy 
all flesh to tell that: you look as if you was, and if you will have the 
key, why you must have the key, and I'll go with you whercsomdever 
you please, but may I be burnt if you gets away from me, or even so 
much as quits my sight." 

** It's all right, Judkins. Come, the key." 

Judkina gave him the key, and, not being satisfied, got up at once, 
and dressed Jumself, and stood by the door, and watched him closely, 
until l^e wa« r^y tp leave the roon^, when he took his arm and shook 
bim well, a»d bflrwled ia lus ear, "I say, sir! Mr. Sylvester.' are you 
awake y* 

" Yea!" replied Sylvester, who, although convulsed with laughter, 
bawled in the ear of Judkins as loudly as Judkins had bawled in his ; 
<* Yes! Jam.'" 

Judkins was now pretty nearly convinced: still he followed him, and 
kept his eye upon him, and would not allow him to go out of his sight, 
until Aunt Eleanor came down to breakfast, when he saw him safely 
into the parlour, and felt that he had thus done his duty. 

" Well, my dear," exclaimed Aunt Eleanor, who was in high spirits 
that morning; ♦* what sort of a night have you had?" 

" I slept well," replied Sylvester, " till half-past five, when I felt so 
desperately hungry, that I was really compelled to get up." 

" Then you did not, before that time, distmb Judkins?" 

" I don't believe that, until I awoke, I even moved." 

** Thank heaven! That is the remedy, my love!" 

<a feel sure of it!" 

" You need not, during the day, be particularly abstemious. All I 
apprehend you have to do, is to abtain from eating suppers. But you, 
of course, know how to act now, much better than I can tell you." 

They then yeverted to the Howards, and, while Sylvester was giving 
a glowing description of the beautiful Henriotte, the reverend gentleman 
passed through the gate, and Sylvester rose to meet him. 

"Well," he exclaimed, as he entered the parlour; "how are you both 
this morning? I presmne, of course, that nothing has occun*ea." 

"Nothing!" returned Sylvester. 

" Then my friend is right?" 

" I believe him to be quite right." 

" That's a blessing. Well, you know I have to be with him at eleven." 

" And I go with you, of course?" 

" Oh, dear me, no; I'll not trouble you. I'll take Jones, you know.. 
He can bring the phaeton back." 

2 2 



356 STLYESTEB SOUND 

'' But, of course, ha\nng dined there, I must make a call, as a matter 
of mere etiquette T 

" Oh, well, if that's it: ah, I didn't think of that. Then we'll both go 
together: we'll both go together. Now, just let me see. I have to send 
to my friend, Mr. Dixon, to beg of him to officiate for me to-morrow." 

" Are you sure that he is not engaged?" 

" A good thought: a very good thought, that. He may be." 

" Shall I ride over now, and ascertain? I shall not be gone more 
than an hour." 

"Well, now; really — ^now that's very kind of you. If jonwould,! 
should, indeed, esteem it a favour." 

" Oh, ril go at once!" returned Sylvester, who immediately had the 
horse saddled, and was off, much to the gratification of the reverend 
gentleman, not only because he should know whether his friend, Mr. 
Dixon, was or was not engaged, but because it enabled him to have an 
hoiu*'s private conversation with his Eleanor before he started. 

Of this hour, he, of course, made the most, and, when Sylvester re- 
turned with the information that Mr. Dixon would officiate for him with 
pleasure, he sent for his phaeton, and, having reiterated " Grood bye! 
God bless you!" at least twenty times, they left the cottage and drove to 
the Hall. 

On their arrival, Howard received them with the utmost cordiality, 
and they sat down to lunch. Henriette — ^who, in Sylvester's view, 
looked even more lovely than she did the previous evening — pir«sided; 
and at half-past eleven, Howard — ^having taken leave of Henriette most 
affectionately— entered the carriage with his friend, and they were off. 

Sylvester now scarcely knew wliat to do. Love prompted him to 
linger, but propriety urged him to leave. While, however, the influences 
of love and propriety were struggling for the mastery, Miss Duprez 
gracefully expressed her belief that he had not seen the garden! 

He could have blessed her — «and so could Henriette — ^who endeavoured 
to conceal the tears which the departure of her father had occ^isioncd — 
and, when Sylvester had acknowledged the politeness of Miss Duprez, 
he elegantly drew the arm of Hemiette in his, while her governess 
opened the garden gate. 

This was indeed delightful. But Sylvester was not eloquent at all! 
nor was Henriette eloquent! Miss Duprez ran about gaily, and gathered 
an infinite variety of flowers, and went into the arbour, and made a 
bouquet ; but Sylvester and Henriette were almost silent although in a 
state of rapture. 

" Now," said Miss Duprez, archly, having completed her task, "this 
is for you to take home : and, after all the pains that I have taken, I 
really must beg of you not to spoil it." 

Sylvester smiled, and received the bouquet : and turning to Henriette, 
said, " This is kind; but will you not add one flower?" 

The face and neck of Henriette were, in an instant, crimson! — but as 
Miss Duprez ran to the arbour again — she added one flower — one little 
flower — ^it was the Forget-me-not. 

That Sylvester prized this above all the rest^ is a fact which need not 




z 



r.) 



//r r f. /VM'///- 



•« i 

' i ' 

'I 

i I 

;.l 

il-i- 
I:: 

I;: 

j;. 



TH£ SOMKAMBttlST. 357 

be explained. She again took his arm, and he pressed her hand, and 
when Miss Duprez had led them to the gate at which they had entered, 
he warmly and gracefully bade them adieu, and, with feelings of ecstacy, 
left them. 

Nothing now worth recording occurred until nine the following 
morning. It is true that Sylvester had, in the night, attempted to get 
out of bed ; but as he did not expect to be, by any means, immediately 
cured, this neither distressed nor amazed him. But there was, at the 
hour named, one man near him struck — absolutely struck with amaze- 
ment; and that man was Obadiah Drant. 

He had gone as usual to the Crumpet and Crown to have the first 
look at the Sunday paper, and when his eye rested on the case of Crim, 
Con, J and he found that Sylvester was the defendant, he called out to 
Legge — "Hallo! Here you are! Here's a go! Send I may lire! 
Look here!" 

" What is it?" inquired Legge. " Anything fresh?" 

" Fresh ! I fancy it is fresh. You recollect that young scamp that 
wanted to fructify me into the belief that he wasn^there at all that night, 
don't you?" 

" What young Mr. Sound? What of him?" 

" I wish I may die if he ain't been crim-conning it.** 

" What?" 

" Crim-conning it with one of the aristocracy. Didn't I always say 
they were a foul, lascivious lot! There isn't one virtuous woman 
amongst them." 

" Psha!" exclaimed Legge. 

" Well, but doesn't this prove it?'* 

" Let me have a look at it." 

" Shall I read to you?" 

" Yes, if you'll read right on, and let us have none of your com- 
ments." 

Obadiah undertook to do this : and, having readjusted his spectacles, 
commenced, and read the opening speech with peculiar gusto. 

" What do you think of that^ my boy ! — ^what do you think of that !" 
he exclaimed. 

" Go on," said Legge ; " go on." 

" Well, but what do you think of it? ThaCs a tidy juxtaposition to 
be placed in." 

" Go on — go on ; or give me the paper." 

Obadiah proceeded ; and when he had got through Slashinger's speech, 
Legge, rubbing his hands, inquired what he thought of it. 

" We shall see, my boy — we shall see!'* replied Obadiah. "I don't 
care for that." 

" Have you seen what the verdict is?" 

" No." 

" Then I'll bet you what you like he gets off.*' 

" Done ! Til bet you he don't." 

"A glass of grog!" 

"Done!" 



35S STLTK9TEB flOCXD 

Ofjadiah rebttmed. 

« HaUo r he exdaimed. « What— Tcdr 

" What oar parson?" 

** The reverend Edward Rcnse! Parscms are sure to pat tkeit noses 
in. Nothing can go along now tiithoat a panon. Now then, what s 
A« got to saj aboat the matter? The ghostf he added, on readily the 
eridence: "what — is that a feet?" 

"What do jon think of jonr glass of gro^ now?" cried L^ge. 

" Why, I think Fve lost it," replied Obadiah: " bat stop a Ht mind 
joa; it ain't over yet!'' 

He then read the replj^and exclalmwi, trimnpiulntly-^ 

" What do you think now of your glass of grog?^ 

" What's the verdict," cried Legge; " whaf s die vcrfict?" 

" The verdict is for die plaintiff, my Briton. Damages two thodsand 
pounds! What do you think of that ! Two thousand pounds, my boy ! 
Eh!^ — what do you think of that?" 

" Why I think," replied L^ge, " that every man on that jaiy ought 
to have two thousand lashes." 

" Not a bit of it. What! don't you seeP 

"Yes, / see all about it. But give me the paper! M read it 
myself.*' 

Panting to spread this " glorious" news, Obadiah at once Wient to call 
upon Pokey, for this was an extensive foundation indeed for him to 
build upon. Nothing but a " rattling revolution" could have given him 
greater scope. 

"Here's yom- works I' he exclaimed, as he entered. "Yon know 
young Sound, don't you?*' 

" Youiig Sound," said Pokey; "ob, yes! What of him?" 

" Do you know what he's been up to?' 

"No: what?" 

"Wiat! Why he's Ixjcn up to crim-conicalisation!'* 

" Crim how much?" 

"Crim-conicalisation! lie's been seducing one of the tViveS of the 
aristocracy." 

" You don't .say so I'' 

" Oil, it's in the papers. There it is in black and white! Ifoti^ll see 
it at the Crumpet. Damages two thousand pounds, my boy ; what do 
you think of tliat ! But she's as bad as him — nay, she's twenty times 
worse! Haven't I always told you what they were? Haven't I always 
said that the pauper aristocracy were steeped to the very eyes in amal- 
gamating vice? Look at 'em. What are they-^^hj uieve isn't a 
Avoman amongst 'em fit to be trusted, nor has there been sinc"6 the time 
of Peter the Great ; and yet these are the wretches — ^I call ^etn wretches 
— who wring a hundred millions a-year out of the ^tals of the poverty- 
stricken people. Isn't it monstrous — isn't it disgusting for any civilized 
mind to amalgamate upon? Why, before Pd stand it, i^ I Was John 
Bull, I'd kick 'em all over to Botany Bay. I wouldn't have it!** 

" Well, but who is this woman? Who is she?" 

^' Why, a lady of title, to be sure! a J^ady Julian— jLorfy Matilda 



THE SOltNAMBUUST. 359 

Maria Julian. Why, her very name shows you what she is! And 
do you thinh that I'd support my Lady this, and my Lady that, and 
my Lady the toother, to kick up such boney fide pranks as mese ! I'd 
amalgamate *em all! I wouldn't have *em ! I'd place 'em in the juxta- 
position of the French, when Boney went to Bunker*s-hill : I*d place 
'em horse de combat, and make 'em fight their way through the world 
for a living. That's how Fd serve 'em. /wouldn't have the locusts! 
If paupers are paupers, they ought to be treated as paupers." 

" But is she a pauper?" 

" A pauper! Don't I tell you she's a lady of title? and ain't they all 
paupers? I say it's a most isgusting shame that these titled drones— 
these imps of the universe, should be allowed to plunder the people in 
this way." 

" Well, but two thousand pounds— 1 say— that *11 be d bit of apult^ 
won't it?" 

" Oh, they must sell off, you knowt safe to be a sale: they can't pay 
two thousand down without! There'll be an execution in the house^ 
I expect, to-morrow. But when you come to look at it, isn't it dis- 
gusting that such a lot of wretches are suffered to breathe!" 

" Who gets this money — ^this two thousand pounds?" 

" Wli}'-, the husband, of course! Don't your ideas fructify? Can't 
you perceive that it's all a planned thing? * I want money,' says he to 
her, * and you know this young fellow. Get him to come some night 
to the house, and I shall gain two thousand pounds.' Don't you see? 
Ain't it as plain as the nose on your face? This is yoxxr aristocracy — 
your pauper aristocracy! If I'd my will, I'd hang the lot! bishops and 
parsons and all. They're all alike! and, mark my words, nothing but 
a flaming revolution will ever do justice to the eternal principles of the 
people." 

He then lefl Pokey and called upon Bobber, and told the news to all 
whom he met ; and then called upon Snorkins, and then upon Quocks, 
and thus he went roimd with this " glorious" news — ^building as he 
went, and coining new words to express his contempt for the " pauper 
aristocracy" — and, as this gave him unspeakable pleasure, he spent a 
"glorious" day, indeed! 

That day Ho\vard dined with Dr. Delolme, and met Scholefield and 
Tom — with whom he had an interview in the morning — and when 
the doctor had explained to him a variety of circmnstances which 
tended to prove that not only Sylvester, but Dr. Sound himself, was a 
somnambulist; he became so perfectly satisfied of the fact, that in the 
full conviction of the innocence of his wife, he resolved on returning to 
Borton on the morrow. 

The reverend gentleman was of course delighted! Me had hoped 
that Howard, before he left town, woidd have an interview, through 
Scholefield, with Sir Charles; but, under existing circumstances, he 
would not have hinted a wish to detain him for the world. 

They remained at the doctor's till eleven, and then returned to the 
hotel; and, as they left town as early as six the next momingj thej^ 
arrived at the Hall before twelve. 



360 8TLVE8TEB SOUND 

On the road, the chief question discussed was, How Mrs. Howard 
should be informed of the fact of her being believed to be guiltless; 
and it was at length decided that the reverend gentleman should go and 
have an interview with her, with power to act precisely as circum- 
tances might prompt 

He, accordingly — having partaken of some refreshment — entered the 
carriage; and proceeded to the residence of Mrs. Ho^vard, which was 
nearly nine miles from the Hall, while Howard himself, to the amaze- 
ment as well as the delight of Henriette, explained to her all that had 
occurred. 

On his anival, the reverend gentleman inquired for " Mrs. Greville ;" 
and, having sent in his card, was shown into the parlour, in which a 
portrait of Howaixl hung conspicuously. Tliis struck him as he 
entered ; but his thoughts soon reverted to the task he had undertaken, 
and just as he had seated himself near the window, a tall, command- 
ing figure firmly entered the room. 

" Mrs. Howard,'* said the reverend gentleman, " I believe I have the 
pleasure of addressing?" 

" Mrs. Howard !" she echoed, with a look of surprise. " My name — ^" 
she added, in deep tones of sadness. " My name is GreviUe, sir—- 
Greville, now." 

"My dear lady: pardon me," said the reverend gentleman; "I 
addressed you as Mi-s. Howard. I did so, because I now come as a 
mediator.'' 

" A mediator!" she exclaimed. " A mediator! From whom?" 

" From one whose affection for you is unbounded, and from whose 
heart of hearts you have never been estranged." 

" Wliy, what am I to understand by tliis?" 

" "My dear, dear madam, I am cognisant of the whole of the circum- 
stances connected with your unhappy case. Yoiu* husband did believe 
3'ou to be faithless.*' 

"He did!" she exclaimed; "he did. But," she added, clasping her 
hands fervently, "I am — before God, I here declare that I am — 
innocent!" 

" I believe it: I believe it: I firmly believe it." 

" You said that he — my husband — did believe that I was faithless. 
Of coiu-se he believes it still !" 

"No— no!" 

"He does wo^'" 

" He does not." 

"Thank heaven!" she cried. "Thank heaven! Oh! most fer- 
vently do I thank heaven for that! A mediator!" she added, thought- 
fully, "a mediator! Tell me — pray tell me at once what you 
mean." 

" My dear madam, your husband now believes you to be guiltless.- 
Your innocence has been severely tested and provea." 

"Proved! How proved?" 

" It has been, through my humble instrumentality, proved that Dr. 
Sound was a somnambulist ! And now I am come to communicate to 



THE SOMNAMBULIST. 361 

you the fact of there being open arms and warm hearts to receive you 
at Borton Hall." 

" Sir," said Mrs. Howard, who appeared to be bewildered, while her 
woman's pride was struggling to gain the ascendancy — " I thank you. 
I appreciate your kindness — ^believe me, I appreciate it highly; but 
Borton Hall is no place for me." 

" jMy dear madam. Now, you will distress me. If you assume this 
tone, you will very much distress me." 

" Look !" she exclaimed, as she bitterly wept. " Look at the indig- 
nities that have been heaped upon me! Oh! it was cruel — cruel!" 

" I said that I came as a mediator. I also came to offer mj advice. 
You saw the carriage in which I came?" 

" I have not yet seen it." 

" Look : it is there. It was yours, I believe?" 

" It was.'' 

" And is still. Now my advice is, that you enter that carriiige, and 
go at once with me to the Hall." 

" Sir, I cannot do it." 

" Not to be restored to him, whom I well know you love fondly, 
and who will receive you with open arms? You made a request, 
I believe, some time since — a request which you said should be your 
last." 

" Yes, and he cruelly, contemptuously spurned me." 

" He feels that it was, on his part, cruel ; but he then imagined that 
that pledge had been violated — " 

" It never was violated by me." 

" He believes, he knows, that it never was. But you then, I believe, 
wished to see him?" 

"I did." 

"And do you not wish to see him now?" 

She made no reply : her heart was too full. She covered her face, 
and wept aloud. 

" My dear madam," he resumed, " be comforted. I know that you 
have had to endure much: I know that your sufferings have been 
great — " 

" They have indeed." 

" I know it : but now that you have a bright prospect of happi- 
ness — ^^ 

"No: I shall never be happy again." 

" Now, my dear madam ; — really you must not say so." 

" If even I were to retium, I should always be the victim of some foul 
suspicion." 

" You wrong him : indeed you wrong him. It is true that he for a 
long time entertained suspicion; but look with me — look, my dear 
madam — at the extraordinary circmnstances under which that suspicion 
was created." 

" Nothing could justify it — nothing." 

" Suppose that you had been Howard, and that he had been you, 
would not you have felt justified imder such circumstances — ^** 



''If I had— even if I had— I riimild nerer har^ treated kirn so 

cruelly." 

** lliis answer I ascribe to that amiable characterises of jrour sex, 
which prompts yoa always— ^trith, or without justice— to sympathise 
and to forgive. But come — now let me — pray let me pterail Upon you 
to accompany me to the Hall." 

" I cannot, sir — I cannot go." 

" You cannot go to make him happy, who hds long been a stranger 
to happiness : you cannot go to fill the heart of Henriette with }ojT^ 

"My poor child!" she exclaimed, convulsively, as a fresh £kx)d of 
tears gushed forth. " My poor child!— stay, su-r she added, as the | 

reverend gentleman rose and turned to the window, with the view of 
concealing the tears which sprang into his eyes; "stay, sir: one 
moment. * 

" I was not about to leave, my dear madam : I was not about to leave," 
replied the reverend gentleman. " I am in no haste — no haste, what- 
ever! Reflect — ^nay, I would suggest the expediency of yotii* retiring 
to reflect: still I must say that, if you consult your own happiness and f 

the happiness of those who are dear to you still, the result of mat reSLec- \ 

tion will be your consent to accompany me to the Hall. I have much i 

to say to you— much to explain — ^much that will interest you deeply— 
but this I'll reserve until we enter the carriage. Consider yourself: I 

consider him to whom you are still most dear: consider your sweet 
child — ^your own Henriette — ^who is anxiously Waiting to clasp you to 
her heart. Go with me — ^abandon all ideas of humiliation— conscious 
of your innocence, go with me firmly — and if, after your reception, you 
wish to return — . But that I hold to be impossible. You make no 
sacrifice! — ^j'ours is essentially a triumph! Noav go, and prepare. In 
tlic pride of innocence meet the man whom you have 7iever injured." 

" I Avill," she replied, with an expression of intensity. " My mind's 
made up. I will." 

Elated with success, the reverend gentleman — immediately after IVIrs. 
Howard had retired — left the room, which appeared to be much too 
small for the comprehensive character of his thoughts, and went into 
the garden, contemplating deeply the happiness which would of necessity 
spring from this reconciliation. lie pictured to himself the meeting at 
the Hall — the delight of Howard — the joy of Henriette! — ^nor did he 
forget to portray the rapture with which his own Eleanor would be 
inspired when he carried the news to the Grange. 

While he was thus contemplating, Mrs. Howard's pride was struggling 
with her purer feelings. Still her resolution remained unshaken. She 
would go. And when she had prepared to accompany the i-eve- 
rend gentleman, the fact was immediately announced, and with 
many kind and delicate expressions of sympathy he handed her into 
the carriage. 

On the way, he explained to her how the conviction of her innOCenoc 
had been intluced: he related to her the whole of the circumstances 
connected with the trial : Howard's journey to town, and his anJcious 
return; but she was still extremely tremulous-ii-still thoughtfui*-still 



Tfi£ SOMlTlMfttilgT. 363 

sad; and when they reached the Hall, he had thd Utinost difficulty in 
prevailing upon her to leave the carriage. 

Howard did intend tO receive her at ttie door, but when he saw the car- 
riage approaching, his feelings overcame him, and he sank upon a couch. 
The reverend gentleman therefore alone supported her — ^for Henriette 
and Miss Duprez were then unconscious of their arrival-«-and when he 
had conducted her into the room, Howard on the instant rose and ap- 
proached with extended arms, into which she at once fell and fainted. 

The reverend gentleman immediately withdrew, and met Henriette, 
who had that moment heard of the fact of their having arrived, and 
when he had communicated his intention to Miss Duprez, he re-entered 
the carriage and retimied to the Grange. 



=eis 



CHAPTEH XJtStlX* 

THE CONCLUSICMC. 



The i-econclliatioii having thiid beeii effected, the reverend gentle- 
man's first object was to induce Howard to go up to to\vn again, with 
the view of being introduced to Sir Charles. He had spoken on this 
subject to Scholefield, who had stated it as his opinion, that if Howard 
— ^in the event of a reconciliation taking place — ^^vere to call Upon Sir 
Charles, his conviction of Ltidy Julianas innocence Woldd be cotiiplete. 

He therefore— having allowed two days to elap5d--**mention^ the 
subject incidentally to Howard, t^ho> bn the instant, declared that he 
would go np at once, and take Mrs. Howard^ Henriette^ and Sylvester 
with him. 

With this arrangement the f evetend gentleift^, of ejburse, Was de- 
lighted, but not more delighted than Sylvestel* was With the idea of 
travelling with Henriette. Howard had decided on starting the next 
morning, and at the appointed time called for Sylvester at the cottajge, 
when he, Mrs. HoWaid, and Henriette, had the happiness of being 
introduced by Sylvester to his aiint. 

Aunt Eleanor was also much pfeased With the intliodtttttion*, for 
although they had been the eause of her bJN>ther's preinature death, she 
felt that they had been ntost iifitiociently the taXi^f and that, therefore, 
they Wefe blameless. 

Knowing, of course, that they would call, she had predated fot them 
a luncheon, and soon won the heattd of Mrs. tfoWafd and Henriette by 
her elegant and atiiiable inanners. 

"My dear madam," said Howard, as he led her to the Window, "1 
shall deprive you of Sylvester's cocietj^ t&r a tlifie, btt be aaliired that 



364 SYLVESTER SOUND 

as circiim8tances have rendered him fatherless, I will, while I live, be 
like a father to him. We need not revert to those circumstances now, 
but I hope that when we return, our friendship will be cemented, and 
that we shall live thenceforward in unity and peace." 

Aunt Eleanor responded to the expression of this hope, and as the 
ladies were by this time ready, they affectionately bade her adieu, and 
were conducted by the reverend gentleman to the carriage. 

" We may not return for a week,*' said Howard; " but Sylvester will 
write to you to-morrow." And having taken leave of the reverend gen- 
tleman, he entered the carriage and they were off. 

On the road Howard perfectly well understood the affectionate feelings 
which existed between Sylvester and Henriette; but as he believed him 
to be worthy of her, and knew her to be worthy of him, he did not 
attempt to check the development of those feelings, but on the contrary, 
felt justified in promoting their cultivation. 

Having arrived at the fourth stage they stopped and dined, and 
nothing could exceed in intensity the happiness of both Henriette and 
Mrs. Howard; for, while the former had commenced a new state of 
existence, the latter had returned to that state in which, formerly, her 
guileless heart had known nothing but joy. 

They were happy, indeed! — ^most happy: they wept, they were so 
happy. And Howard wept too: nay, tears sprang into Sylvester's eyes 
— their happiness was so contagious. 

Having dined, they went on, and reached town about six, and had 
coffee, and went to the Opera with Tom, and, in the morning, Scholefield 
introduced Howard to Sir Charles, and had a long and most interesting 
interview with him. 

Sir Charles had previously felt convinced of the fact of Lady Jub'an 
being innocent : for Scholefield had related to him the whole of the cir- 
ciirastances connected with the case of Mrs. Howard, and, therefore, 
when Howard himself had stated that a reconciliation had been effected, 
Sir Charles felt so perfectly satisfied, that he exclaimed, " this young 
man is innocent, I see! Both he and Lady Julian are innocent! The 
damages shall not, of course, be enforced. I'm entitled to no * damages.* 
I've received no damage. I have not — I feel that I have not — been in- 
jured. They made it out that I wanted the two thousand pounds. I'll 
not have the two thousand pounds. But if that young man should ever 
want two thousand, let him come to me, and he shall have it!'* 

This was the result of the interview ; and, before Howard reached his 
hotel. Sir Charles was with General Lloyd. 

The general, on receiving his card, felt quite inclined to treat him 
with contempt ; but, on reflection, he thought it would be better to see 
him, and, therefore, sent word down that he'd be with him anon. 

" Well," said he, haughtily, as he entered the room; " what do you 
want here, Sir Charles Julian?" 

" What do I want here!" exclaimed Sir Charles, not anticipating such 
a reception. " If we can speak to each other calmly, let us do so : if 
not, our interview is at an end." 

" Calmly ! What do you want here?" 



THE SOMNAMBULIST. 365 

" I scorrij^ replied Sir Charles, with indignation, " I scorn to answer 
any question put in that tone." 

" What toncy Sir Charles Julian — what tone should I assume to him 
who has blasted the reputation of my child, and who has affixed a stain 
of infamy upon her, like a fool — ^like a fool — ^like a villain and a fool? 
She is innocent! /care nothing for your verdicts ! Five thousand ver- 
dicts will not be sufficient to make me believe that she is anything but 
pure!" 

" General Lloyd," said Sir Charles, " while you pursue this irrational 
course, I cannot talk with you." 

" While I pursue this irrational course ! What course would you have 
me pursue. Sir Charles, since you deem that of warmly defending my 
child — believing her to be innocent — irrational !" 

" I do not deem that to be irrational, /will defend her as warmly as 
you ca«/" 

" You defend her! You, who have basely cast her out of the pale of 
society, and branded her a wanton! — you defend her! If she had no 
stronger defence than yours, the weakness of her position would be 
pitiable indeed. But she has a more potent defender than her husband. 
She has a father, who will defend her while he has life and breath : she 
has, moreover, the strength which conscious innocence imparts, and that 
surpasses all. Have your trials — sue for your divorce— she is innocent 
•—innocent still!" 

"I believe that she is! I now firmly believe it!" 

"You do!" 

** I do, most firmly." 

" And how has that belief been inspired?" 

" By the knowledge of the fact that that young man is, in reality, a 
somnambulist. I have proved it. I have proved it beyond all doubt. 
I am therefore satisfied." 

The general rang the bell, and desired the servant to request " Lady 
Julian" to come down, and not another word was spoken until she 
appeared. 

As she entered. Sir Charles was the first to address her. " Matilda," 
said he, " I am here to inform you that I have happily become quite 
convinced of your innocence." 

" Sir Charles Julian!" she exclaimed, with an expression of scorn, 
" whether you have or have not become convinced, is a matter to me of 
the most perfect indifference. You have injiu*ed me irreparably: you 
have brought yourself into profound contempt; and now all you 
have to do is to sue for a divorce, and the sooner you obtain it the 
better." 

" Matilda," resumed Sir Charles calmly, " I did not expect this from 
you." 

" Wliat did you expect. Sir Charles Julian? Did you expect that, like 
a guilty thing, I should tremble, or be silent, or sink before him who 
has thus vilely cast upon my character a stain of infamy!" 

" I expected that you would at least have been calm: for although I 
have now no desire to urge it — still the event justified suspicion." 



866 ATLYlCSTlCIt (K>uin> 

"It didnotjU8tify-*-it couW not justify-»yoi^ oon4uot in publicly 
branding me with so much precipitation." 

"Look you, Sir Charleg," interposed the general, who had been 
thoughtfully pacing the room. <* You believe hw to b^ innoQgQt?'* 

"I do moat finnly*** 

" Very w^. You ^r^ Qouvinoed of it?'* 

"lam." 

" Very well. Then how do you propose to remove the stigma ?" 

" Why, in the Arst place, \ am amdous for Matilda to return."* 

" Return !*' she exclaimed. " What to live again with you ! Never! 
Never!'* 

" Very well,*' mH the general; " that's settled. Now you can leave 
the room." 

" I gbould feel myielf d^^dedW 

" Venr well; that'll do, Leave the rest to me." 

She then ciwt ^ witl^erin^ glftnoo ^ Sir Chiles, and witl^dr^w with 
an air of di^dnin. 

"Now, tl^en," resigned tb^gtn^fili <^hQW is tliis st^in to be re- 
moved?'* 

^' Wby the itmt of our Uying together ngirin would h^ve the effect of 
removing it." 

"No: no sufih thing* It would b^ sfnd that, like an infatuated old 
fool, although conscious of her guilt, you took her back, and forgave ber. 
No, that'll not do. The ttain cannot thus b§ remoy^." 

" What, then, would you suggest?" 

" I would suggest to you, Sir Charles, the necessity for acting, as you 
are bound to act, as a man of honoiu:." 

" I am quite pr^par^ tp do so. But how do you conceive that I am 
bound to act?" 

" You are bound to declare, both in public and in private, your 
settled conviction of her innocence." 

"In private I have already done so; but how am I to do it in 
public?" 

^< Through the medium of the papers. Consult your attorney. He 
will be able to get your conviction, and the facts which induced it, 
made known to the world. Let |this be done, Sir Charles ; let this be 
done." 

" If it be possible, it shall be done." 

" Very w^ll. When it is done, we'll see what can be done next ; but 
until it be done, and that effectuallyj she shall never, with my consent, 
return." 

Resolved on doing all in his power to counteract the eiFects of the 
report of the trial, by making her innocence known to the world, Sir 
Charles then lefl the house. 

* * * * 

Little now remains to be told; for here the history of Sylvester, as a 
somnambulist, ends. The means adopted with the view of preventing 
a recurrence of somnambulism — those of taking much exercise, and 
living abstemiously*— proved to bo in bis case effectual; and when this 



THE SOMNAMBULIST. 367 

had been proved — ^there being no obstacle whatever in the way, and as 
they loved each other passionately — ^he and Heniiette were united. 

And so were the reverend gentleman and his Eleanor! aye, and so 
were Judkins and cook. Lady Julian, moreover, was eventually pre- 
vailed upon to leave the genei'aFs house and return to Sir Charles ; and 
while Howard himself recovered his former health and spirits, IMrs. 
Howard was happy in the possession of the affection of all around her. 
She indeed formed the centre of a most delightful circle ; and, if even 
Sylvester had not been cured effectually, ho would after marriage have 
been quite safe ; for while, during the day, Henriette would not let him 
sleep, at night she invariably locked him in — ^her arms! 



Loifooir:.st«iim-pr«i|9f W. M. Ci.ark, R«d Livn-CORH, Flttt-itrHt. 



I 



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